


Lamento -ANAMNESIS-

by yamashta



Category: Lamento -BEYOND THE VOID-
Genre: Blood, Child Abuse, Childhood Memories, Death, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied Sexual Content, Memories, Memory Related, Mental Illness, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Original Fiction, Stabbing, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-04-01 12:21:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 24,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4019557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yamashta/pseuds/yamashta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The timeline and events are supposed to, the further along the story goes, get harder and harder to follow. At times, you may think, 'well this seems like it probably happened before this, not after?' regarding an event in a certain chapter. It very well could have happened before and not after. My intention is, as time progresses in the story, for it to become more difficult to differentiate reality from memory, falsity from truth, and when something happened. It's following the mind of Froud, and his descent into instability.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Lamb & Doves

**Author's Note:**

> The timeline and events are supposed to, the further along the story goes, get harder and harder to follow. At times, you may think, 'well this seems like it probably happened before this, not after?' regarding an event in a certain chapter. It very well could have happened before and not after. My intention is, as time progresses in the story, for it to become more difficult to differentiate reality from memory, falsity from truth, and when something happened. It's following the mind of Froud, and his descent into instability.

Money ensured a stable future. School, college. A roof over your head, food on your table. Clothes without holes, roofs without leaks. Should you become ill, a doctor will heal you. Should you become depressed, a pill will be given to you.

Money isn't all. Influential figures- admirable men- if they are your blood, they are your crutch. Should you fall, they will be the ones to support you. If you need something, you'll be given it. If you want something, you'll be granted it. That's just how it was.

At school, he was scolded, though not always, for not paying attention. Someone once said, 'His head is in the clouds. He must be so carefree.' If only it were that simple. If only he were care free. That would be something.

"Froud!"

A boy child, healthy and bright eyed, ran to join his classmate. In one hand, a belt supporting books. In the other, his jacket. Shirt was neatly tucked into his trousers, his shoes were polished and his hair combed back. The son of a wealthy man, no doubt.

"Froud, want to come over today? My mother promised me pie should I get good grades, and my report card says I passed with flying colors."

He seemed pleased. Why wouldn't he be? He was being rewarded with sweets for being smart. What's not to like?

"I can't. Father wishes me to come home immediately..."

The boy child would frown, but press no further.

"Ahh... your father certainly is strict, isn't he... he's so smart, you're lucky to be his son... you'll probably grow up just as powerful as him... I'm a little jealous."

Froud's gaze fell, lashes hiding large, youthful eyes. "Don't be. It's difficult. He expects a lot of me, and there's only so much I can do."

There was an uneasy silence between the two, before the boy child laughed, sing-song voice awkward. "Well, all the same. If you'd like I can try to save a piece of pie and bring it in tomorrow." a grin spread over his cheeks. "I believe it'll be bilberry."

"Bilberry?" Naturally narrow brows raised. "Those are in season now, aren't they... I completely forgot..." he liked bilberries. They were sweet, and tart, and stained easily. Delicious and better than a blueberry, yet much more fragile and difficult to harvest. They were a treat.  
"I'll take that as a good thing. I know you like those." The boy would grin, clap the other child on the back and hurry ahead, turning briefly to wave. "I'll see you tomorrow, Froud! Try not to pack a heavy lunch!"

Froud smiled weakly and shook his head, moving on ahead. He was, again, met side by side. This time there was a girl- no, two. They were sisters. "Hello, Froud."

Feet stopped and he'd turn to look at them. "...Hello." The two smiled in unison. Something in his chest fluttered briefly- whether it were excitement or discomfort, he hadn't a clue. These twin girls frightened him in that they always were together, always able to continue the other's sentence, and always moving at almost the exact same time.

"How are you today, Froud?" "Yes, Froud. How are you, today?" "We didn't see you at lunch-" "-So we weren't sure you'd made it to school." "How much school have you missed this year, Froud?" "How many days?"

Suddenly feeling rather pressured, the boy's brows furrowed. "I'm... fine. I was to clean the chalk boards, I got caught day dreaming in class..." there was a pause. "I'm not sure, not too much, I hope."

"I see." The two would reply together. Glancing at one another, smug smiles formed. "You really ought to take hold of your head." "Who knows where it'll wander." "One of these days it might just-" "-go and not come back."

These girls. Frieda and Ethel Blake. Fair skinned, brunette, with icy, calculating eyes. A soft peppering of freckles decorated both noses. One had a small mole near the corner of her left eye, the other had a small mole to the right of her upper lip. They were beautiful children, and the daughters of a merchant who dealt in impressive, imported goods.

"Would you like to play a game?" Ethel's lips curled into a more genuine smile, a light in her eyes. Frieda smiled as well. "Oh, yes. Please, we insist."

Small white hands took to Froud's shirt and arms, and soon the boy, a bit too baffled to protest, was whisked away.

Where they ended up was a swimming hole. Growing increasingly anxious, Froud began to ponder whether or not he should excuse himself. If he were too late going home, his father would be furious.  
"Come, Froud. Let's swim." "Yes, come swim with us, Froud."

"Surely if your dresses get wet your mother will have a fit..." Stopping along the incline leading down and into the water the boy would look down. Partially shaded, it was well secluded by a vast willow, it's long, trailing branches dipping their slim fingers into the cool water below.  
"They won't if we don't wear them." Frieda's words hit Froud's stomach like a cold needle. Standing stiffly in place, he'd watch the two girls skillfully scale the slanted, gnarled trunk and disappear into the low hanging leaves above. 

The next thing he knew, a stark white body dropped from a branch and a grand splash sounded from below. Snapping out of his stupor, Froud shakily climbed the the tree. There, Ethel stood beside her sister's clothes, which were neatly folded and draped over the branch she stood on.

A slim white body, pure and untouched by sin, long and wavy locks trailing down her spine. Bending over, she daintily slid her socks off. Froud couldn't help but gawk. Not once had he seen a girl in the nude before. Tucking her socks together into a ball, she'd slip them into the pocket of her coat and turn, body straightening. A thin smile formed on her lips.

"I'll see you in the water." Being given no time to reply, Froud watched awkwardly as the girl turned her back to him, walked forward along the branch, and dove off of it. A second splash sounded below.

Froud didn't want to undress. Truth be told, he didn't even want to be here. It's not as if he didn't want to spend time with the girls, it's that he dreaded the potential outcome of coming home late. It truly depended on whether or not his father would be home.

"Froud~" "Come swim, Froud~"

Two voices lured him out of his train of thought, and before he knew it, he was stiffly removing his clothing as well. Then, with a rather uncoordinated jump, he was in the air, then in the water. Surfacing, he'd gasp for air and look around. Frieda drifted neck up nearby and Ethel stood upon a boulder peeking out from the water's surface.

"Now for the game." Voice seeming filled with importance, her posture was similar to that of an instructor or teacher. "Whoever can hold their breath the longest wins. If I or Frieda win, you have to share your lunch with us tomorrow." Oh. "If you win, Froud," she'd continue, slowly turning her gaze to him. "You get a kiss."

A kiss. "Alright, let's begin." jumping into the water, she'd surface, hold a finger up, and count. Froud seemed confused, but obeyed, and the the counting was up, each inhaled deeply and submerged.

Beneath the water's surface, the girls' long hair floated up above their heads, tips barely touching the dim, spotted light from above. They looked beautiful, like mermaids. Soft little mermaids missing their tails.  
Frieda was the first to surface gently kicking her legs to keep afloat. Her form was lovely. Truly she was excellent at swimming. Froud wasn't that good, he was better at floating, mostly due to being able to hold air better.

Soon, Ethel rose too, hair clouding her face as she swam upward. Her form was good too. They both were talented and filled with a grace suiting swans or deer.

Distracted in his thoughts, he was once again pulled out of his own mind literally by four grabbing hands. Breaking the water's surface he'd gasp and sputter. "Did you drown, Froud?" "Did you drift away again?" "Silly Froud. That's dangerous!"

"Did I win?" he'd say, his voice small as he gasped awkwardly for air. The hands released his arms and the two looked at one another, in sync. Slowly looking back, the two would smile, lids lowering. What pretty faces, even with their hair wet and ribbons taken out.

Two pairs of soft pink lips met Froud's left and right cheeks, face immediately burning up scarlet. Blood rushing in his ears, he barely heard the voices of his peers. "Yes, you did." "Congratulations, Froud."

The next day.

Exhausted. Froud was exhausted. His head felt so strange. It was lasting, it was making him feel awful. He hated this, whatever it was.

"Froud."

When the boy didn't respond, the teacher rose his ruler and brought it down onto the child's fingers. Immediately he'd snap out of it and sit up straight, drawing his hand to his chest. It felt hot and hurt evilly, a sort of throbbing sensation spreading throughout.

"Pay attention." The man shook his head and turned away, letting out a sigh. Making his way back to the front of the class, he'd resume his reading aloud. A few students were staring at the boy now, which caused him to shrink in his seat.

Last night, Froud had arrived home an hour and a half late. He and the Blake girls waited around until their bodies dried before dressing again, then parted ways. His father was not home, so he immediately headed to his room, bathed, and changed. From there, he busied himself with school work. However.

His father found out from the maid. While greeting him and taking his coat at the door, she'd mentioned the boy coming home later than expected. While acting coolly and as if nothing were wrong, the man made his way to Froud's room and scolded him.  
The thing about his father's scolding was not that he were loud and violent. It was that when he scolded Froud, he was so eerily calm it unnerved him. Froud knew, too, that it was a calm before the storm. A storm yet to come.

Later on, the man would return, and the two would spend time together. This was normal. With his large hands coiled around the boy's throat like snakes, he'd squeeze, slowly but surely, while Froud laid patiently, anxiously, like a doll- like he was told. He'd be unable to breath, he'd lose his vision, and, at the verge of losing his consciousness, the hands would let go and he'd be left, lying limply, powerlessly, in a heap.

"Froud."

The teacher had looked up from his book, brows furrowing. Froud blinked slowly and looked up. Giving the boy a cold glare, the teacher continued from where he'd left off. Froud had again spaced out while thinking.

He did it at home. When his father hurt him. He'd lay, he'd turn his brain off. He'd stop thinking. He'd wait for it to end. This is how it was. Ever since the death of one of their previous maids, Froud didn't even bother fighting now. He let it happen.

At lunch, Froud got to have a rather squashed piece of bilberry pie, but it was worth it because it was delicious. It also took his mind off of things. At the end of the day, the events from yesterday repeated themselves- the boy child approached him and attempted to invite him over, then departed when the offer was declined.

The two girls approached him and invited him to play another game, but this time he properly declined and made his way home, arriving at the appropriate time. Forcing himself up to his room, he'd bathe, change and busy himself with school work.


	2. Toad & Swans

Seasons came and went. The leaves fell, grew, and fell again. An endless, natural cycle that Froud couldn’t help but watch. Everything seemed to be crawling at a snail’s pace for him, while everything around him changed rapidly.

Children he once called peers seemed to be growing older. Changing shapes, changing appearances. He was too, he just didn’t realize. That’s how it was, though. Time came and went. Even if the world felt the same forever, it never truly did stay one way. Changing, constantly, for better and for worse. 

Summer was an especially pretty time. The sun was high in the sky, casting a golden glow over everything by noon, and a rich orange and red by evening. Perched atop a barren hill overseeing a meadow vibrant with golden grass, the surrounding aspens quaked and trembled, shimmering leaves flickering to and fro with each gust of warm wind.

Wind was truly a wondrous thing, wasn’t it? It created such beauty. It made grasses billow, leaves dance, flowers shake and water ripple. It made a hot day cooler, a cold day colder. ...Cold. Wind certainly was a cold element. Strong winds could topple fences, tilt plants, uproot trees. It was a powerful creature. A fearless creature. An admirable thing.

Froud was not powerful, or fearless, or admirable. At least he didn’t think so. He’d laugh if someone said he were. He was small, thin, and completely dependant of his wealthy father. There was nothing admirable about that in the slightest. He couldn’t even support himself- not that he necessarily needed to, nor ever probably would.

The average man, however did, and that was, in itself, considered an admirable feat. Especially if that man supported an entire family. A wife, children, perhaps even pets or livestock. If he could support them all on his own, he was called a hardworking individual deserving of respect.

What did that make Froud? What did that make Froud’s father? His father hardly lifted a finger it felt. He mostly did paperwork and shook hands from what Froud could see. What kind of job was that? How was that respectable? There was no effort in it whatsoever. It… was unimpressive.

“Froud.”  
“Hello, Froud.”

A pair of familiar yet different voices reached his ears. Wasn’t he alone?

Yes. He was definitely alone. Taking a deep breath, the boy exhaled slowly, eyelids falling over vacant eyes. Going over so much- every detail of every little thing. It was exhausting. Still, he had an eye for detail. He assumed he’d gotten that from his father. He was somewhat of a visionary. Sometimes. Unfortunately.

“Froud, where have you gone now?”  
“Is it quiet, Froud? Is it safe?”

Eyes would slowly reopen and his head would turn. Six feet away stood two young women, long, well kept hair braided neatly and coiled into a bun. Both wore handsome dresses and protecting their heads from the sun, impressive spoon bonnets decorated with chiffon lace trim and fake flowers coordinated to compliment their outfits. As always, they both were beautiful.

“Aren’t you going to say hello, Froud?”  
“You’re just staring…”

Froud cracked a small smile, lids heavy, lashes shielding eyes from the golden sun. “Hello. Frieda, Ethel.” The two smiled softly in response, evoking a wider smile from the boy in question. “What are you doing out here?” It’s not as if this was close to their home or his. It was closer to their school, but still a distance.

“You always come here. To think.” Ethel took a step forward and produced a hanky from her pocket, unfolding it. She laid it out flat on the ground beside Froud and sunk down, taking a seat. Frieda did the same, both girls seated politely atop handkerchiefs to spare their dresses the potential grass stain.

“Sometimes we come out to check on you, but… you often seem so deep in thought we decide it’s best not to disturb you…” Both directed their gaze in the direction Froud had been staring. The boy reclined a little and looked back as well, and soon a pleasant silence followed, the three simply basking in the noon sun.

Several minutes passed. Perhaps twenty, though it felt like three to Froud. He’d just gotten so carried away, elbows rested on his knees, fingers loosely hooked together by the tips, his head tilted ever so slightly to the side. What coaxed him out of his daze was, of course, voices at his side once more.

Ethel and Frieda had both stood and put their handkerchiefs away, and were now gently prompting Froud to stand. He did, though not entirely on his own. “You’re such a strange thing,” one would comment gently. He thought nothing of it. They weren’t wrong.

“Would you like to play a game?” Ethel’s voice was what broke the silence.  
“Oh, yes. Please, we insist.” Frieda soon piped in after.  
"Come, Froud. Let's swim."  
"Yes, come swim with us, Froud."

Something about all this was oddly familiar, as if it had happened before. Perhaps not exactly like this, but something similar. It certainly felt similar.

Four dainty white hands pulled and pressed at his clothing and back, urging him along. Stiffly going ahead, his mind was absolutely nowhere and thought not of his father’s feelings should his arrival home be delayed.

Venturing further away from in between and closer to the old school they went to as small children, they weaved through brush and was soon face to face with a severely slanted old willow, it’s weeping branches hanging low and gently dipping it’s fingers into the cool water of a swimming hole. 

"Surely if your dresses get wet your mother will have a fit..." Froud would comment idly, gaze falling onto the incline his feet had stopped at. The girls trailed on ahead, turning only briefly to give a pair of matching pearly white grins.

“They won’t if we don’t wear them.” Skillfully scaling the trunk of the tree after removing their boots and stockings, the two disappeared under the veil of leaves. Cocking his head slowly to the side, Froud remained in place, a strange, cool feeling sinking into his gut. It wasn’t an unpleasant one, just a strange one.

Having wandered off in his head, what brought him back to the present was a splash from below, and the last thing he saw was the white of a bare body and the tips of long brown hair disappearing beneath the surface of the water. As if an automaton, he’d begin unbuttoning his shirt and trailing toward the trunk.

After removing his own shoes and socks beside the girls’, he’d step onto the tree and ascend. His steps were slow and careful, his mind zoning in on not falling. Had he always been this disconnected? That he had to force himself to pay attention, to prevent himself from falling victim to injury?

Shrugging the clothing on the upper half of his body off, he’d begin to fold it, glancing up only briefly at the nude body a short distance away, further along the branch. Perfect, smooth white skin, the subtle rising and falling of newly developed curves. There was a newfound nubility to the appearance of Ethel’s unclothed frame, yet Froud pushed aside the ache in his chest, simply going on ahead to disrobe and fold the rest of his clothing neatly. Placing it down so that the pile draped safely over either side of the branch it was on, he’d glance up.

Greeted by a soft smile, Ethel pushed back that long, lush hair of hers and glanced down briefly, then simply turned her back, walked a few steps further along the branch, and dropped off of the edge. Froud waited for her splash and land, found a safe place to drop, and did so soon after.

The three ended up playing a game. They’d see who could stay beneath the water’s surface the longest. If the girls won, they’d get a portion of Froud’s weekly pocket money. If Froud won, he’d be given kisses. Already aware of who would win, the three did just that, submerging beneath the water after taking in a good amount of air.

Froud received a kiss on either cheek from the two girls, and the three spent the rest of the time interacting simply and quietly, much like they had before several years prior. Taking the time to dry on the boulders protruding from the surface of the swimming hole, they eventually redressed and walked home together, both of Froud’s pinkies laced with either girl’s. Once they made it to a place where they had to part ways, they bid their farewells discreetly and continued onward.

Froud’s father was not pleased. It’s not as if he was late home often, this was perhaps… the third time, the second time being when Froud had to stay after school for falling asleep in class. His father hadn’t been able to answer the telephone when a teacher had called to notify him, so he didn’t find out until after he’d delivered Froud’s punishment.

Even with the unjust treatment, there was an ongoing, unemotive neutrality to Froud that his father seemed to appreciate. It wasn’t an act Froud put on, either, it was simply how he was. With fingers still larger than his own coiling around a throat much paler than it had been once before, tips would knead into the muscle in the back as an anchor while thumbs dug harshly into his throat.

His lips would part, his jaw would drop. The narrower his trachea became, the closer the light seemed to come to leaving his eyes. The joy in the older man’s face, the moment Froud began to feel he were slipping, and then the chill of an empty room, the burn of raw flesh, and the spinning of dizziness. The heaviness of a near dead body. Blackness.

Repetition. Repetition, repetition.


	3. Buck and Pigeon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (( Now with character references! Here are Klaus, Ethel & Frieda, and Froud. [[link](http://67.media.tumblr.com/b63751486cd4d1029a04860d04218694/tumblr_obdhrw2zNP1uaefi2o1_1280.png)] ))

 

A small tug at the young man’s lips, threatening the slightest of smiles. A rare, pretty thing on a face otherwise devoid of all emotion. Boyish, yet at the same time adult and handsome. Much like the rarest of prizes, it brought joy to those around him. A gift.

“Ahh, Froud. It’s good to see you smile, you don’t very often at all, do you…”

A blonde man- about Froud’s age, sat across from him. Both sat lazily at a table, jackets draped over the backs of cushioned chairs as one skimmed newspaper and one stirred coffee. Honey colored eyes fixed on a slim and pale frame- meek, willowy, lacking color except for an almost doll-like ruddiness to lips, cheeks and rims of eyes. Froud paid no attention to the healthier, more fit male. He was used to this. Men and women alike flirted constantly nowadays, he had no idea what to do about it other than endure and not acknowledge.

Time continued to blur together, days felt like years and months felt like mere hours. It was exhausting, and his treatment at home didn’t help. All he could do was distance himself from reality and ignore things that complicated matters- such as romance, which many seemed interested in pursuing. Why? Froud, when he DID think about it, couldn’t come up with a valid reason. He rarely spoke, rarely interacted with others, and when he did he was very quiet.

People called him gentlemanly. Kind. Sweet, even. He didn’t get it. Is it because he stayed out of people’s way…? Made an effort to avoid doing things that might upset others…? He always thought of Gentlemanliness and kindness as something else. Something more casual and outwardly expressed. Froud did not outwardly express himself.

“You’re so proper… you don’t even blink at a compliment. You mustn’t show any weakness!”

It was a comment meant to be humorous but, in the end, it resulted in no such humor being found. Froud didn’t want to show any weaknesses. That much was true. He simply couldn’t afford to fall victim to anyone while away from home- he wouldn’t be able to cope. He already struggled as it was. He didn’t think he was proper, either. To be proper was to be spoken and suave but with grace and dignity. He hardly thought himself dignified or graceful. 

“Have any of our old schoolmates gotten in touch with you, Klaus?” Froud neither rose his eyes nor turned to face him as he spoke. “I’ve not heard from several in some time.”

“Ahh, haha. Straight to it then. Yes, I have actually. I recently received a pair of letters sent in one envelope, as well as a few individual messages.” The blonde would raise a hand to rub at the back of his head, smiling awkwardly. “Jean has begun his apprenticeship, Margaret recently got into the stock market and is doing pretty well by the sounds of it… hm… ah yes, Lucas has traveled out of country on an expedition- evidently it’s quite hot where he is. A lot of insects, too.”

“I see.” Froud’s voice was light and airy, eyes averted elsewhere- not on his paper, not on any other shop-goers. An empty space where nothing was.

“Ethel and Frieda have officially inherited their father’s business. He passed away a few months ago- I believe a heart attack. I can’t say I’m surprised, the man was quite large.” Klaus fiddled with his cup, took a sip and sighed, setting it down at the table. He’d cross his arms over his chest, then, and settle back.

“Ah.” Slowly returning to reality, Froud’s attention was directed to Klaus, often morose eyes looking slightly warmer. “Are they well?” For as strange as they were growing up, Froud did consider them friends. They were never mean to him, never hurt him. They could say cryptic things and behave oddly, but putting those things aside, they really had never done him any wrong.

“It would seem so. I believe they’re in town at the moment, too. They mentioned not living here anymore and coming around for nostalgia’s sake. They both actually mentioned you individually as well.” Klaus seemed a little baffled, but also a bit amused. “They asked something along the lines of, ‘is he quiet? Is he safe’?”

That tugged on the edge of Froud’s mouth, producing a soft little smirk. Klaus seemed pleased in seeing it. “I take it that’s an inside joke or something of the like- it’s an odd thing to ask.” It made little sense to him personally, but if it were something just between the three, it’d most likely make sense to Froud.

Which it didn’t. And did.

Was he quiet? Was he safe? Yes, and no. Also no and yes. He was quiet- he had to be, to save his own skin, and he was unsafe from the wrath of a powerful man all too dedicated to a ritual that was slowly killing his child. Unsafe from the wrath of a man who, if driven to it, would murder to stay quiet, to stay safe.

Froud was not quiet. His mind spoke wildly, madly, loudly. He never vocalized, but inside, he was screaming. He was safe from the ridicule it may bring if he spoke, safe from the wrath of his father should he tell their secret. He stayed quiet. He stayed safe. Ethel and Frieda had never been indulged in the details of his home situation at all, and yet they seemed to know. They knew something was wrong, and instead of showing pity or sympathy, they treated him as they would any other child friend.

Froud appreciated that. He didn’t want to be pitied or sympathized with. He wanted to live, and keep living, if he could manage. He wanted to be treated as any other would, and he wanted his private, personal matters left alone. Which they both did. They had knowing looks, knowing smiles, and gave off cryptic messages like any creepy stereotypical pair of twins would, but that didn’t matter. Not to Froud.

Because they never commented about the bruises.

 

“...Froud?”

A voice roused the dissociated young man from his thoughts. Large and worn eyes would turn and direct themselves to the source, only to be met by a pair of amber colored ones. The thing- no, pardon, the person they belonged to, seemed concerned, the telltale signs visible on his face in the slightest, most subtle of raised brows and parted lips.

“Are you quite alright?” Klaus forced a small smile. “It’s as if bringing those two up chased you off, but not physically.” he’d suddenly laugh, unable to hold back. “Can’t blame you, they can be a little unnerving.” Letting out a weak sigh, he’d tilt his body forward, then his head, as if trying to peer at Froud’s face from below. There was a silence, then a second sigh, this one oddly resigned. “You really have no flaws, even at an odd angle like this.”

“Ah?” Froud tilted his own head, peering down at Klaus. Klaus… he’d been around for a long time. Longer than the two girls- he was always at Froud’s side, or at least he tried to be. Froud didn’t understand why Klaus cared so much. What was there to care about? Truly- he hadn’t any idea.

“...A-ah, sorry.” The blonde flushed and sat up straight, clearing his throat and going for the remainder of his coffee. “Sometimes I say things without thinking. Ignore that- just forget I said anything.” What was this, then? What was this all about? What was he going on about? Froud showed no sign of confusion, curiosity or disapproval, nor realization when he began to think: ...was… Klaus interested in him? Like that?

“I think I may go, I’ve got more mail to check- not just from our old peers but from business associates. It’s important, I keep slacking but I find myself doing that when I’m stressed. Rather counterproductive, isn’t it?” Klaus began running his mouth, trying to deviate away from the odd compliment he’d thrown Froud’s way. “If you’d like you’re free to visit- my aunt is ill so Mother’s been away out of town, helping her out around the house. It’s nice and quiet.” he sounded almost disappointed. “A little too quiet. I could use some company. I’ve got Dola, but she’s not much for talking back, just listening.” Molly was Klaus’ cat. If Froud liked anything about Klaus, it was definitely his cat. He preferred cats to people- any animal really- even when they were aggressive it was generally with reasonable intent behind it.

Humans were untrustworthy and overly complex.

“Perhaps.”


	4. Fawn and Hawk

While doing his best to keep track of the time- much like a hawk would it’s lapine prey, Froud decided after thinking it over thoroughly that he would indeed drop by Klaus’ home for a brief visit. When he arrived an hour or two later, he stressed the ‘brief’ part and allowed his coat to be taken from him. He was offered food and drink- or rather, he was told if he wanted or needed either he simply had to ask. Naturally Froud politely declined and was lead to Klaus’ office-room, where the mentioned young man immediately resumed his work in. Froud took a seat on a small two-person seat near the window and let out a tense breath.

Eventually he’d twist his body, craning to glance out through spotless glass, only to come face to face with a large, long-haired white cat with blue eyes. It appeared to be cat-napping, curled into a nesting position in a basket that had been placed in the window sill. Froud stared at it for some time, unintentionally having let out an odd, slightly muffled noise as if to process this discovery. Klaus glanced up.

  


  


“Ahh, I see Dola’s taken to the window again. She loves to bask in the sun that comes through- it surprises me a little, sometimes. She’s got all that fur, you’d think she’d overheat but no, no.” The male let out a soft chuckle and stacked a few emptied, opened envelopes to the side, going on to sort through the papers that had previously been inside of them. “I’m not going to lie, if I have trouble sleeping just thinking about her knocks me out. She can sleep through just about anything.”

Froud’s eyes narrowed in thought, graceful head slowly cocking to the side. “What a carefree creature.” Klaus simply nodded in agreement. Froud never touched cats, for they seemed much too fragile and he could relate to that all too well. He didn’t want to be touched, so he’d grant that much to a cat, even if said cat wouldn’t mind. It was just an odd thought process of his that made more sense in his head than spoken aloud.

“If you’d like,” The blonde began, his voice clearly distracted and not completely attentive to Froud’s presence, “You can offer her a treat. I keep a package of dried fish about and odd enough she seems to just love them. Ah- it’s right there on the cabinet beside you.” Froud, feeling put on the spot, froze up and drew his hand close. He sat like that for a minute or two, then stiffly turned to where he’d been told and reached for a paper sack. Cautiously reaching in, he’d retrieve a small, silvery fish with a strong aroma from the bag and stared at it, then slowly turned back to the cat in the window.

He felt awkward. He’d never fed a cat. Never touched one. 

The cat had woken and was now staring sleepily at Froud with large, narrowed eyes. Leaning forward, it sniffed gently at the air before it and shifted in place, showing obvious interest. For some reason, Froud’s palms were sweating because of this. He was forgetting how to do simple things like hold out food to an animal, but managed. The cat sniffed at it, gave it a few light licks and bared it’s teeth, daintily taking the fish from his fingers and turned away. Setting it down on the window sill, it began to nibble on it from the tail up.

Klaus had apparently been watching the exchange and was now grinning. “What’s the matter, Froud? Have you never fed a cat?” For some reason hearing the words aloud stung, almost as if for having never touched a cat he was doing something wrong. Avoiding eye contact, the smaller man stood from his seat and muttered.

“I’m going to wash my hands.”

“Ah. Alright then! Take your time.”

Take your time. That’s what Klaus had said. How could one like Froud, in his circumstances, take his time? Exiting the room, he waited until several feet from the doorway before moving speedily along the halls to the nearest washroom. When he returned, Klaus seemed surprised. “I forget how fast you are sometimes, Froud. Goodness gracious, you’re like the wind.”

“The wind.” The smaller of the two said softly, more to himself and in thought than anything else. Glancing at the cat, who was still enjoying the snack it had been given, he’d fold his arms behind his back and lean against the wall. He looked thoughtful, as if something were troubling him.

“Ah? Froud, are you afraid of Dola?”

Of course, that stung ten times more than the initial question he’d avoided answering. Froud was not afraid of a cat. He didn’t fully understand why he behaved the way he did around them, or this one in particular, it’s just how he was. He couldn’t help it. Looking down, he’d lower his voice just slightly. “No.”

“Alright. Really- she doesn’t bite, so you needn’t worry if you are. It’s fine. She’s a good girl.”

A good girl. Froud had an odd association with praise-terms such as ‘good boy’ and ‘good girl’. While incredibly common for small children and pets, the use of the term was often abandoned when a child grew to be a certain age. For Froud, it continued on, into his young adult life. He didn’t like it particularly, but he wasn’t exactly able to protest in any way.

“I see.”

Froud hadn’t noticed Klaus standing and moving over to him. He was now at his side, peering at him with a hard to understand facial expression. When Froud finally looked, he became confused. The taller man looked bothered by something, but also happy at the same time. “...What?” he’d finally ask, not liking the small distance between them.

“You know, Froud…” a strange foreboding in the smaller man’s gut told him to run, but he remained rooted in place, pressing his body firmly to the wall. “You’ve got the most… beautiful eyes… I’ve never seen eyes that color…” Klaus raised a hand and gently pushed a bit of stray hair from Froud’s forehead, then softly took his chin in his hand and tilted his head to look up so that they looked eye to eye. “I don’t even know what color it’d be called, it’s so different.”  


 

They’d kissed. As Froud walked home, much later than he’d wanted, the memory of warm lips on his own flashed through his mind. He hadn’t returned the kiss, really, but he hadn’t exactly rejected it either. On his mouth, chin, jaw… a fire in his belly had stirred, had frightened him, and the moment he’d gripped onto the sleeves of the man who’d pinned him to the wall, the clock piped up to signify that Froud indeed was now an hour late. He immediately jerked away, collected his coat and left, apologizing in a small voice as he went downstairs and exited Klaus’ home.

 

_It hurt to breath._

 

Froud lay on the floor. His father stroked his face, wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with a cold thumb, then stood. His head felt inflamed, his face was discolored. Vibrant bruising, new covering old, blossomed beautifully over ivory flesh. Cold sweat, cold body, hot head. His eyes felt like they’d burst out of his head though he could just barely keep them open. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to float away. The sight of his father’s joyous face as he laid still, enduring the torture- it was stained in his head like a brand mark on the hind quarter of a horse.

_Repetition?_


	5. Crocodile and Clock

It was the same. Every day. Repetition, repetition, repetition. It was exhausting, it melded time and space together as one long, ongoing day that never ended and faded away in between. Nothing and everything mattered, and in this place, nothing else existed. It was a quiet, still place, yet raging with a dangerous air and passion he could not escape. He didn’t dare.

  


He was so tired.

 

Through the telephone, Froud politely informed Klaus that he’d be unable to meet with him for a while. He’d fallen ill again and needed to take it easy. He may leave the house if he felt up to it, but would do so sparingly and make trips brief. Klaus took the news fairly well and bid him a speedy recovery. He offered to come by, but was advised it’d be best if he didn’t, simply to prevent any potential drama. Froud supposedly was, at the moment, ‘emotionally vulnerable.’

He didn’t like lying. He wasn’t sick at all, he was hurt, and he couldn’t go out in public looking the way he did. Due to his most recent session with his father, he had some rather unsightly petechiae on the whites of his eyes and just beneath them, and that didn’t even begin to compare to the contusions on his throat. He normally wore a cravat but even now, his cravats couldn’t hide the bruising along the very center of his throat. He’d need to wait for them to lighten up a little.

Froud was contemplating a variety of things. While in his room, legs pulled to his chest and face in his lap, he’d thought what it’d be like to die. To just… cease to exist. To not think, not feel. It sounded strangely wonderful. He wasn’t sure if it was the bitterness in his heart he never truly could acknowledge, or something entirely different, but dying was a dream that at times felt like the absolute best.

Erwin had stepped out for work related reasons, so it was only Froud and the maids. The maids didn’t fuss with Froud, and Froud didn’t fuss with them, for neither felt connected enough, even with a worker-and employer relationship. After witnessing an exchange between his father and a maid back when he was still very young, he distanced himself from the maids entirely. If he didn’t get attached, he’d feel better if something happened to them.

A set of footsteps and a gentle knock on his door roused him from his thoughts and he’d raise his head, glancing at- speak of the devil- a maid who peeked her head in. How odd. They never interacted with him- never. Not even during dinner when serving him. Everything was set out on the table before

“Sir, there are visitors. Shall I send them off or let them in?” 

“Who is it?”

“Two women. Blake, they said.”

“Ah. Let them in.”

Blake. Frieda and Ethel Blake. Suddenly wondering how they’d gotten his address, he’d slide off of his bed and check himself in the mirror. He looked terrible. Tidying his clothing and powdering beneath his eyes to lighten the red, he’d exit his room and make his way downstairs, into the den. His stomach felt strange, as if something very heavy had been dropped into it and then removed, leaving only a deep, hollowed out hole.

  


* * *

   


“Hello, Froud.”  


“Hello.”

The women who waited there were slender things- one slightly curvier than the other but putting that aside, both almost completely identical. Dark brunette hair was worn in tidy, high buns, pale skin complimented by the slightest bit of makeup and dark attire- long sleeved, high-collared corseted black gowns with sheer lace concealing the throat and a small amount of bosom. Their stockings and small, pointed boots were matching in color and overall they looked like they’d just come from a funeral.

It had been years. Perhaps five. Since graduating from school, they’d not been in contact with one another. Everyone became insanely busy with adult responsibilities, and once the initial transition from childhood to adulthood at come, settled, and begun to establish itself, that was when once again old friends and relations began to come in contact again. Unless you lived quite close to others.

Froud lived quite close to Klaus, for example, as will as another student from their school days who was a bit older. They sometimes all got together to chat, but for the most part he did his own thing while Froud and Klaus did theirs. Usually separately, because Froud liked to be alone most of the time.

The Ethel and Frieda standing before Froud now, though- they’d changed. Once long, wild golden brown looks seemed so much darker and tame. Once colorful, friendly attire was now black and lifeless. Once cool yet childlike eyes now seemed frigid and sharp like knives. Yet- they greeted him with a smile.

  


  


“Hello, Ethel, Frieda.” he’d offer a soft nod to either and raise a hand. Instead of shaking both’s hands individually, Ethel took the produced hand and Frieda shamelessly took the other, gently shaking and drawing him close. Placing their opposite hands atop the ones taken, a subtle coldness enveloped the backs of his hands and palms. “Look at how you’ve grown. You’re taller than us, now.”

By default, Froud was a bit smaller than his peers. He’d always been small, and at times, even smaller than the girls. Supposedly this was normal, but he often felt as if he was the odd one. Now at five foot eleven, he was around average in height. Many of his peers, however, were between six and six foot three. Long story short, he often felt like an ant among giants.

“How have you been, Froud?” “Yes, Froud. How have you been?” They glanced at one another knowingly, then fixedly returned to staring at the young man’s face. 

“It’s been quite some time,”  


“Yes, quite,”  


“-and we’ve wondered about you so.”  


“We would have visited sooner,”  


“-or even sent something in the post,”  


“-but the circumstances simply were not ideal for such a thing.”

An old behavior Froud would never forget. They changed so much- yet this one act- the way they interacted with others, hadn’t changed at all. It was… strangely comforting. Letting a small smile play onto his features, he’d give both a vaguely amused look. “I’m fine.” eyes wandered only a moment. “...You know.” and his voice would trail.

The women both exchanged looks again and smiled, an unnerving relaxedness to their eyes. Froud bit his lip, feeling suddenly awkward and stiff. Forcing himself to speak, he ended up putting his foot in his mouth. “So, ah- you’re dressed very… dark, this evening. Is… is it for any reason in particular, or…?” The two grinned.  
  


“Since father died we’ve been dressing in darker garments. It’s… preferred.”  


“He liked us dressing cheerful. His cheerful little girls. One can be quite cheerful and dress in black, it’s not as if colors are strictly designated to certain moods and feelings.”

That… made sense. It was actually an interesting concept- one Froud hadn’t really put into perspective before. Colors, or in this case, no color, really didn’t mean anything in the end. A color, shade or tint was a color, shade or tint and that’s all there was to it. Sure, humans conditioned themselves to associate things like blue with sadness or a clear sky and yellow with flowers or sun, but in the end it meant nothing.

Nothing meant anything.

“We like to express our freedom to do as we please this way. As adults we ought to anyways.”  
“Father dearest is no longer with us, so, even though our period of grief has gone from mournful to accepting, we continue to wear the black. We both like it better anyways.”

“I… see.” Froud was having a hard time focusing on all of this. Colors. Associations. Freedom. Mourning. Acceptance. So many things, all at once, swirling about his head like a halo of question marks.　That word- Freedom. It mocked him. He wasn’t sure why, but it did. It mocked him for some reason.

“What are you up to then, Froud?”  


“How have you been keeping busy?”

“...Busy…?” Busy. What DID Froud do to keep busy? He wasn’t all too sure himself. Trying not to die? That wasn’t anything new, though. He’d been doing that since day one. Most people did that- some more than others. Like Froud. Froud was constantly trying to not die. Or rather, trying to not let himself be killed, since attempts on his life came frequent like a mundane daily activity.

“...Nothing, really…” he let out a soft breath of air, averting his eyes. Ethel and Frieda exchanged looks, only to smile softly. They didn’t seem at all to be mocking him, nor judging him. The smiles both seemed… knowing, and accepting. It was a welcomed pair of smiles, even if they were a bit odd.

“Would you like a ride around town? To get a little fresh air. You look as though you could use it.” Ethel spoke finally, a faint warmness to her otherwise unreadable voice. Frieda bowed her head briefly as if to agree. Froud, meanwhile, was having conflicting thoughts on the matter. On the one hand, he wouldn’t mind going out. He hadn’t left the house in a while- he generally did every day but in conditions like this he generally stayed inside- primarily to the confines of his own room.

“...I…” he let out another sound, a hand absent mindedly raising to gently touch at the loose knot-work of his cravat. “I’m not sure, I’m not in the best of health at the moment…” he wanted to. Now that he really thought about it, now as the idea was proposed, he really did want to leave. He didn’t want to be here. Anywhere but here.

“Our ride is discreet.”  


“Quiet. Safe.”

A strange ache roused in Froud’s chest. Quiet. Safe. Those words. They had meaning in writing but in words, words formed by soft lips- they were like music to is ears. Strange, broken music, but music all the same. Almost like a hunger he wasn’t aware of- no- not even that- a starvation. He yearned for these two’s presence. They alone knew how to relax him in the strangest of ways. Perhaps he truly was strange, as well.

Like a child being drawn with bribery, a strained voice escaped his lips. “...Please.” And he needn’t say anything further- it’s as if they knew. They began gently coaxing, drawn, guiding. The maid nearly spoke up but an air hung around the three like a sacred ritual all it’s own. They soon enough exited the residence, hand in hand in hand, two women and a man, yet still a boy, standing between.

  


* * *

  


Discreet was one way to describe their mode of transportation. It was a landau-style carriage, entire made up of sleek, glazed black wood. The top, as expected, was convertible on both front and back though seemed to have not been used for such a thing once. Despite it’s style, it had curtaining built in to the windows for privacy that could be drawn and tied aside. It was a graceful thing- most likely able to fit four people or more if the people are petite enough- like small-built women and children.

The coachman was dressed warmly yet in darker colors similarly to his employing party, and the horses- two large males, a handsome dark seal brown, stood shoulder to shoulder, idly swaying their tails and glancing about. They were majestic creatures, truly. Froud hadn’t seen a dark seal brown horse in ages. People often opted for chestnut or gray-white.

Frieda stepped up into the carriage first, took Froud’s hand and helped him in. Then, he did the same for Ethel after she’d finished speaking to the driver. They took their seats, the girls with their backs to the coachman and Froud sitting right across. Glancing anxiously toward his door, he let out a tight exhale as the car began to move and it eventually grew distant.

 

“I see you’re still quite distant, Froud.” Ethel began. She’d daringly removed her boots and had them resting in the young man’s lap. He didn’t seem to mind at all, in fact he was gently rubbing at the arch with one of his hands. Frieda had gone to Froud’s side and was nestled to his side, her head on his shoulder. This, too, he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, his own head was tilted onto hers.

“Ah… so I’ve been told…” eyes stared idly into space, only confirming Ethel’s observation. Frieda chuckled softly, wrapping slim arms around one of his. A weak smile graced Froud’s features briefly and both girls seemed to pick up on it immediately. Froud, naturally, hadn’t picked up on THEM picking up on him.

The three exchanged words- though minimal and quiet, it was like the old times when things were innocent and simple. Small smiles, the occasional, rare chuckle. They caught up, discussed their time apart. Froud agreed to meet with them a little later in the month for tea. He’d been reluctant initially because it was a reunion party of sorts, one multiple students from their old school would be attending, but Ethel and Frieda assured Froud it’d be fine and that they’d stick around him to make sure no one bothered him too much.

As weird as it seemed to be a man being ‘protected’ by two women, he had nothing against it. He welcomed it. He found security in very few places- especially not at home where most found the highest amount of it. He took it, rare and few, where he could get it.  
  
  
That’s just the way it had always been- since childhood.


	6. Mouse in a Field of Rabbits

The reunion was exhausting. Froud recognized everyone though remembered few- it was strange. Names and faces blurred together like an ugly, muddy smear on his conscious. He’d been granted permission to go from his father much to his own surprise, and had even powdered and dressed for the occasion appropriately.

Froud wore a handsome silk Jacquard vest in a pale gray and a showy cravat in cream over a standard white shirt. Trousers and coat were in a complementary color, though given the nature of the party and the lack of uptight adults, many young men simply neglected to wear their coats once indoors. Everyone wore colors ranging from dull pastels to rich, dark colors, and the young women all wore unneededly fancy dresses. All in all, Froud was overwhelmed by the sea of undulating silks and finery as people interacted with one another, sharing tea, stories and memories.

It was being hosted by a man named Giles, though Froud could not recall his last name. Giles was a tall and proud creature, much like a peacock. Frankly he reminded the smaller man of his father- a sort of welcoming, kind exterior masking something most likely much darker within. That being said, Froud did not like Giles very much, even if he didn’t recall him doing anything in the past to warrant such feelings.

Ethel and Frieda were due to arrive, shortly, which gave Froud time to unfortunately have to mingle among the other party goers without them around to help. He was approached by two people at one point- a couple and two students were weren’t in his class, but the same grade back in the day. Surprisingly Froud was able to remember their names- Donovan Lynch and Lyla Ashmore. They were both decent people- decent behaving, decent looking. They both walked side by side, hand in hand. Clearly they were a couple.

“Ah! ...Froud, isn’t it?” Donovan’s voice was friendly enough. They both offered polite little bows, Froud awkwardly and belatedly returning the gesture. When he nodded as confirmation, they’d both take turns smiling. “How are you, then? I doubt you remember me- you might remember Lyla, though.” Donovan gave a short laugh. “She often volunteered to read out-loud to the class.”

“...Ah…” Froud’s voice was soft and distant, eyes drifting to the side. He’d nod, it in itself gentle. “Yes, I believe I remember both of you… Donovan and Lyla… yes.” closing his eyes he’d tuck his arms behind his back, resisting the urge to grimace. He really didn’t want to talk to them. He didn’t feel like talking. Not just to them- just in general. Overstimulated and on edge, conversing like this was draining.

“I see you’ve not changed much. Your head always was in the clouds. Not that it’s a bad thing, it’s like you’ve not a care in the world.” Lyla smiled sweetly- she held no ill will in her eyes or voice, it was purely an innocent observation. Even so, that just wasn’t true. She couldn’t be more wrong.

“I suppose you could call it… ah- an idiosyncrasy of mine…” Satisfied with his own way of wording it, Froud gave a slight nod, shifting his weight to one foot. I suppose outwardly he COULD appear fairly problem-free. He stood for comfort, he had a poor attention span, he probably did look dreamy and elsewhere. Technically, this wasn’t wrong. What was wrong, however, was the nature of which his ‘dreaminess’ was perceived. It wasn’t because he was carefree. It’s because he had too much to care about, and thus dissociation became a heavily relied upon coping method. 

“How is your father, then? I suspect business is well enough, you ARE one of the best dressed lads here.” Donovan had taken a step forward and was now leaning just slightly, head cocked while he observed and took in the details of Froud’s ensemble. Froud couldn’t help but make a vague face at this.

“Yes, it’s quite well… he’s… quite well…” brows furrowed. “Able bodied, able minded…” _Able minded may be a stretch,_ Froud thought to himself darkly. _I hardly think a man like him would be considered stable by society’s standards._

“That’s great to hear. You take after him that way, I see. That’s good- I bet you’ll be a great business man when the time comes.” Towards the tail end of Donovan’s sentence, a distant voice cut through, it’s source drawing near until finally a young man dressed in caramel and chocolate colored finery sidle on up and beside Froud, grinning.

“Sorry! I don’t mean to intrude…” Klaus. “I saw Froud and just had to come say hello. Ah, hello to both of you as well, though.” He’d smile kindly toward the couple, both smiling back. They both said their hellos, but didn’t mention anything about it ‘being a long time’. Froud suspected they’d interacted recently and therefore it didn’t call for such greetings.

“May I steal him from you?”  
“Ah, go right ahead, he seems a bit shy with us.”  
“Ah, yeah, he is a little shy. Sorry about that.”  
“It’s not a problem at all, it’s good he’s got a friend like you.”

Friend. Was Klaus a friend? Froud wasn’t even sure he knew what the word ‘friend’ meant. Someone close? Someone trustworthy? Someone you felt you could talk to? He didn’t feel that way with Klaus… or anyone, really. Not even the twins. He felt utterly alone when it came to the bare flesh and bone of it. As sad as it was, that was simply fact.

After Donovan and Lyla had parted ways after bidding their farewells, Klaus would turn toward Froud, an earnest expression on his typically smiling and boyish features. “...Froud.” his smile had disappeared, voice showing a hint of concern. “Are you alright? We’ve not spoken since you fell ill… You seem well now, though…”

“...I’m fine.” Froud brushed Klaus off and let out a sigh- mostly of exhaustion. He didn’t like these large social affairs, he was constantly worrying he’d get lost or get caught up in something and be late home. He didn’t want to be late home. 

“...Alright… really, mate, if you need to rest or go home early-”  
“I’m quite alright, Klaus. Truly.”

Using a firm voice, though not harsh, Froud reassured the other and looked up. Oat eyes met honey and a small silence happened, the two simply gazing at one another with unreadable expressions. Eventually, as expected, Froud was the one to break the gaze and he’d look down, meekly apologizing.  
“A-ah, no, don’t apologize, I guess I probably seemed like I was prying… I should be apologizing…” Klaus suddenly seemed a bit down and awkward. His attempts to be helpful and show concern had been shot down and turned away, it was understandable. “...As long as you’re sure you’re alright. Just… don’t push yourself…”

Froud nodded, though did little more than that. He did not attempt to reassure Klaus, nor did he thank him. It not only didn’t cross his mind to do so, it just didn’t seem necessary.

 

In the end, Ethel and Frieda arrived, shooed Klaus away and walked with Froud, supervising his interactions and stepping in whenever he seemed overstimulated or disinterested. This made the whole affair more tolerable and it went by relatively smoothly. A few people requested his presence for one on one tea and catch-up chat, which he awkwardly accepted. They were all far and scattered and in between. This was fine- and they were early day affairs, meaning he didn’t have to worry about staying out too late at night.

Towards the end, the girls did have to leave earlier than expected, though the event itself was nearing an end anyways so that was just fine. Planning to walk, Froud had exited through the kitchen to avoid the other party goers and had begun to make the trek home.

Except...

“Froud.”

The streets dark and empty, the sound of gentle chatting could be heard in the close distance. In that close distance, there was also small bits of light and movement, though Froud paid no attention to it. He’d planned to head straight out and away, but a voice caught him like a worm on a hook. Stopping abruptly, a strangely cold sweat threatened to break out over the young man’s body.

“...”  
“Froud…”

Steps, closer. Closer, still. Closing his eyes, Froud took a slow, deep breath, all the while remaining silent. His chest hurt- his heart had begun to beat fast. He wasn’t even sure why- he knew this voice, this voice had never once hurt him or put him in danger. Not intentionally, anyways. Gloved hands tensing into fists, Froud braced himself as the footsteps stopped.

A gentle touch to the back of his shoulder, one light falling heavier. Fingers curled around, no malice, no ill will. Soft grip. Froud’s head fell forward slightly, entire body tense now. A weak force was put into the hand and began to draw the smaller man near, causing Froud to step back. A body was pressed to him, a head rested against the back of his neck. Arm snaking around Froud’s waist, he was awkwardly embraced from behind. 

“...Why…”  
“...”  
“...Why do you always… ignore me… and shut me down…”  
“...”  
“...I don’t get it… I… are you just… not like that…?”  
“...”

Temples and forehead feeling disgustingly tacky, Froud opened his eyes, staring at the street beneath his feet. The embrace was so tender- like parent to child or lover to other- chaste, but so very heartfelt. It was a feeling Froud wasn’t familiar with at all. Not once had he been held quite like that- not in his recollection, anyways. It felt foreign- unwelcome. It didn’t hold the warmth it ought to, what it did to everyone else. It felt… heavy.

“Froud…” The voice’s owner cracked, and grip shifted once more, gently coercing the unwilling Froud to turn around to face them. A pair of honey colored eyes met Froud’s own, brows knit in a distant frustration and obvious confusion. Meanwhile, the young man in question’s own face held no outward emotion, face stiff and unmoving- which was, of course, normal.

 

It happened again. That strange gesture- one different from any even vaguely parental peck or friendly smooch- it was something more meaningful, though Froud struggled to grasp what it really meant. The internal struggle of Froud’s mind had him wishing to run, to dart away as quickly as possible, yet his legs like lead had him rooted. Closing his eyes as he endured it, he wondered if this was normal.

Klaus had kissed him again.

__

Re pe ti ti on...

__


	7. Shrike

Disgusting. Disgusting- truly disgusting. How could you? How could you? Really, really. You think this is alright? You think this is all okay? You think everything can just keep going on like this- repeating itself, over and over again, for eternity. You really have given up before you’ve even begun. How pathetic.

* * *

 

The rain went on. On and on. Quiet at first, soothing at first. The longer it went, the louder it got, the louder it felt, sounded. The sky so clouded in gray no sun shown through, the approaching night bathing everything in a deep, rich indigo. Among the horizon, the inky black silhouettes of homes and businesses could be seen, tainting the otherwise blue atmosphere with knife like strands of gold through square windows, blurred by the fog.

No guests. No family. No friends. Empty. So, so empty. What happened? What did you do? What on earth is happening… you’ve really done it now. You can shake, you can sob all you want- it won’t undo what you’ve done, now matter how many times you beg for forgiveness, wash your hands, bite your knuckles, burst out into laughter and curse yourself. You fucked up and you can’t go back. Not this time. Not ever. This is only the beginning.

 

* * *

A weak sigh escaped thin, pale lips. Dull eyes gazed out of a wiped-clear spot on the fogged up glass, a pair of slender knees pulled to lean chest. What time was it, again? Froud was losing track again. He wondered how stray animals felt on cold, wet afternoons like this. Probably hiding, waiting patiently, looking forward to the puddles of drinkable rainwater yet disliking the downpour as it happened.

Froud had no drinkable rainwater to look forward to. He had an ongoing downpour, unending, unrelenting. It wasn’t a literal one, either. It was one in his mind- in his home. One that dampered his spirit, his life. It was exhausting. So, so exhausting. Froud was just so, so tired.

In this weather, Froud dared not go outside. He’d easily catch cold, what with his fragile body. Bored. Very bored. He generally went out and visited the library or had coffee early on in the day, but the rain was not permitting of such a thing. Therefor, he could not get any minor socializing he needed doing out of his system. Very, very bored.

The upside was that his father wasn’t home.

Even then, it was one of those days. Unprovoked, they’d have to face each other eventually. Froud would be groomed, praised, and laid down, then brought to the edge. By now, Froud had grown to accept it. He wasn’t fond of it at all by any means, but he had grown to accept that this fate of his was unavoidable. That’s what he wanted, though, anyways. Right? Repetition.

At least with repetition everything stayed the same. Everything was predictable- there was no need to observe, there was no need to fuss about trying to read others or figure out what was going to happen. 

Everything had already happened before, after all.

Having lost count of the drops of rain that fell down the window, Froud pushed himself up and away from his seat. Stretching briefly, he’d make his way over to the mirror, giving himself a look. How mundane. Everything about him was so dull- from his outward appearance to the look in his eyes. So boring.

“Ah.” his own voice nearly startled himself, though he calmed down relatively quickly. Letting out a soft sigh, he’d draw his arms up, wrapping them around himself. “You truly are a pitiful creature.” a short silence, deciding it’d be best to correct himself. “No. You’re not worthy of pity.”

“Why don’t you just die already.”

Seeming satisfied, Froud stepped away from the mirror and made his way over to his desk. Removing an already used piece of parchment out, he’d prepare his pen in the inkwell and begin to write. It wasn’t a journal entry- it wasn’t bound. Perhaps it was a letter. Whatever the case may be, he did just that, filling it up with whatever it was, then put it in with the others. Perhaps he was writing a book?

 

P̯̬ ҉̜̠̘̤̀e̞̤̜̭̤͠ ̩̣̲r̶̸͎̭̠̬̙̗̫h̩̪̫͙̠̘a҉̴̛̜̞̬͇͕ ̶̜̝͙̮͓̤͘p̸̞̝̣̩s̞̱̼̰̯̤̤͜ș̻͓̟͇̣̺͈͝ ͙͎̝͎̣̞̦͡h̫̫̣͕̳̻͎͙̀͠ ̶̻̱́̀ ̵̶̞̲̝e̷͕̩̲̬̺ ̱͉̩͖̖͖̫̻͓ ̛̦̻̦̳̱̠̦̙̼w̺̳̮̖̪ͅ ͈̪̩̠̟͍͟͜a͏͙̙̙͇̹ ̛͙̺͈̘̳s̗͈̯̞͓̪̀͢ͅś̭̳̬͍͝ ̖̯͎̫̀̕ ͏̸͙̜̥̭͜r̞̞̭͇̫̰̠̝͟͟͠w̵̮͍̠͠r҉̷̮̯̤͈͙̖͉̀i͔͍̼̝̟t̨̜̠͚̮͓̳̯̬̀͜ͅi̸͈ ̶̻̰̺͍͚͜ ̯̳͡g̰ ͔͉ ͓̖̮͓̦̘̩͝n̠͇͍̫̹̗̳̼͡n̘̙̰͘͜͡ͅn̵̯̠̮̮̟͙̮ ̰̜̣̞̙͖̥̀ ̟͈̲͚̹̹̣̫͞a̷͡҉͈ ̧͕͔͎̺̣̘̹͓͚ ̛̭̪͘ ҉̪͎͔͙̱͉͉͙ ͏̱͖b͏̞͓o͈̭̩̹̳͡ò̸̺̩o̦̲̳͓͢k̡̟̰?̺̯̙͇͜?̵̧͓͟

* * *

“Fro...ud… You...”

 

Erwin came home. Erwin summoned his son to their ‘special place’. The place where it always happened. He’d lay him down, groom him, praise him, then draw him to the brink of death. Whether he truly intended to kill him was a mystery. Knives always there- perhaps to intimidate the boy into cooperating. He’d never once laid it’s blade to the child’s flesh.

The child had witnessed the blade be laid on a maid. A long, long time ago.

What had Erwin said, to his child? As he stared down at the woman, lying in her own blood, face frozen in horror? What had the child said, just before that? It truly did seem long ago. How old was the child then? How old was he now? How old was the child’s mother, when she passed away…? How old was the boy, when Erwin began to blame him for his mother’s death?

* * *

__

_"...Father..."_

_"Mh?"_

_"...Is she... happy...?"_

_"Happy?"_

_"I mean, look... her eyes- they're open wide... her mouth is gaping... she even screamed so joyfully... like when you touch me... she's just like me..."_

_"Eh? That's right, Froud. She's happy- exactly like you- like your mother. Life's most unbearable moments are the greatest expression of joy."_

_"...Is that... so..."_

_"Yes, that's right."_

* * *

Having lost count of the drops of blood that ran down his hands, Froud pushed his father’s body off of his own. Panting, light headed, yet he’d done it. He’d managed. Knife still deeply embedded into the older man’s gut, it was wrenched out as the smaller man got atop him, straddling his waist. The knife fell down once more.

Again.  
Again.  
Again.

 

A̙̥͂ͬͥͣ̃͋͗g̢̛̫̗͔̤̯͉̗͚ͫ͑͑̿͗a̍ͬͨ͂̔͌ͫ̔͏̧͎͇͚̙̼̣̖ǐ́͛ͨͯͤ͏҉͕̪͕̮͓͕̼n̹͍̝̲̞̞͉͛͗̓̇͌ͩ͜͢.

Repetition. Beautiful, crisp, enlightening repetition.

* * *

A gasp escaped Froud’s lips, then a grunt- then another. Each time he brought down the knife it made either a damp thunk or a wet squelch. It was satisfying. It was warm. His body burned- it ached for more. The heat of the movement, of the red that ran- that sprayed and that spurt. It felt so… sweet. So kind… welcoming. What was this warmth…? Was this… love…? Was this what children felt, when their mother held them close? Stroked their head, kissed their cheek… was this what that feeling was…?

He’d had no idea how much he craved it. This- it flowed into him like a dam had been broken, flooding his chest, his nose, his mind- not once had he felt a pleasure so great. Like a hurricane in his very soul, he lost track of how many times he’d stabbed the man beneath him. 

The flesh was barely recognizable. Deep, pulpy wounds pooled in blood, the tissue was so torn, so damaged, it hardly looked like a torso. It looked like… like…

Froud began to laugh hysterically, tears in his eyes. This feeling- this smile- the smile felt so good- so good. “Father, look. You're making the same face. The face I used to have when you were strangling me- the same face the maid had when you stabbed her, and... the face mother had. Father- you must be happy too. Ah! But you can't see yourself without a mirror, right? You can't see it. Eheh-eheh! Hahaha!”

He couldn’t stop laughing.


	8. Chameleon

“I ought to go. I can’t be gone too long.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed was a thin and willowy thing, near-nude and currently redressing. On the bed, a disheveled, unclad young man who frankly seemed worn out. Pale, white foot slid into a sock, then the other, then trousers. Shirt was tucked, vest was replaced, and shoes were found. “I’ll see you later, then. Don’t get into too much trouble.” the smallest of chuckles rung from the one’s throat, a smirk on fine and sharp features.

He’d changed. The Froud everyone knew- a meek, dissociative, quiet thing was no more. As if the shell- the layer upon layer of insecurity, silence and fear had been stripped away to expose a rich-green tree, freshly grown leaves bordering on venomous in vibrancy. This was the new Froud. The one everyone wanted, right?

“...A-ah- yeah, uhm…” Klaus sat up and cleared his throat, tugging at his own clothes while attempting to redress. He seemed bewildered, still. He’d honest to god never expected Froud to approach him so… bluntly, and- and to initiate such an act. It’s not as if he’d never thought of it, but knowing Froud, it hadn’t really been a thing he ever expected to actually happen. Guess he was wrong.

“...Will you come back?” An honest question, prompting Froud to turn and look at the man he’d just slept with. An odd question. Would he? He wasn’t sure himself- really, this had been strictly an act of compulsion. Froud wasn’t even sure why it happened or why he’d suddenly decided such a relationship would be formed with Klaus. Previously, he didn’t even like Klaus like that. He didn’t like anyone like that- he’d never even slept with someone before.

“Will I?” Froud tutted, another chuckle escaping. He liked his newfound ability to laugh at things. It felt good. With the main obstacle out of his way, he felt free, like he could do just about anything and live his life as he wanted to. “Who knows. I might run off to France. Haha- wouldn’t that be just awful?” His voice suggested it’d be just the opposite of awful. What an odd way to joke around.

“Don’t mess around like that, Froud. Lord, what’s gotten into you? Just the other day you’d cringe if someone touched you, now-”

“Why does it matter? I’m happy. You’re happy too, aren’t you, Klaus? This is what you wanted. I’ve know for a while now, the way you talk to me, look at me. The way you’ve kissed me…” Froud drew near and sat down beside the redressing man. Wrapping a slim arm loosely around him, Froud leaned close and spoke against bare neck, eyes and voice sultry.

“Don’t worry about me, Klaus. I’m just being myself…” he’d grin. “Something I thought I couldn’t be… but… now, I think I can… thank you.”

Skin visibly growing goosebumps, Klaus laughed awkwardly and let out a tense sigh when Froud stood, finishing up his final self-tidying steps. He looked presentable enough to go outside- wasn’t dirty, didn’t seem disheveled. Glancing back, he’d cock his head to the side. “What’s with you, then? Come on. Smile.” he’d gently pat at Klaus’ cheek with the palm of a cool hand, then step into his shoes which he’d neatly lined up.

“O-okay…”

* * *

 

“You’ve changed a lot, Froud. My goodness- you’ve always been a good looking man but you’ve never outwardly shown charisma quite like this.”  
“You could say I had an epiphany one night.”

Sitting across from one another, Froud sat here, and a girl from school, Elizabeth, sat there. She herself was a lovely young lady now- she was always ‘that girl’ in school, the ones the boys chased and cooed over. Now, for god knows what reason, she was approaching Froud on her own accord, showing interest in him. It was a bit odd, really.

“Ah.. Froud…? Are you busy tonight…?”  
“No.”  
“...Would you be interested in perhaps… meeting up…? Maybe… dinner…?”  
“Why not.”

* * *

He’d loosened up so much. Previously he’d always been so uptight and anxious, so quiet and reserved. Now… He was meeting up with people left and right, attending social affairs, doing business. How many beds had he been invited to? How many compliments had been paid his way? The joys of flesh on flesh only did so much, and words- words meant absolutely nothing. It was disgusting, really, how many people apparently had liked him enough to want to lay with him. How many people he had begun to lay with.

Even Lyla and Donovan. _The both of them._  
Even ‘Giles’.  
Even Klaus.  
Ethel.  
Frieda.  
Ũ͗͟m͗̒̒ͭͤa̷ͪ̓̀͒̾̊̽g̡̈ͥ̈́͊̾i̊n͌͢ẻͯ̄͂̂ͤ.ͭ҉  
͛́R͂͏a̧͆̈͊ͮ̄́̑nͭ͛d̃͌ͭ̆̃͜ȁ̑ͤ͒ͭͧ̽l̸͆ͯͩ̎͆͆ͬ.̵̏͐̌̏  
A̜͍̻̗̟̟͇ǹ͇͖͉n̐͋i͎̬̜ͯ̉͗̒ͫ̋͆́e̯̠̰͎̋̋ͦ̓.̳̻͍̭̎̐͂ͭͥ̇ͤ  
̠͙̣ͦ̆E̹̫̺̓ͦͯ̽͑ͫ͆ͅl̡̠͖̖i̫̗̖͒ͮͣz͎͎̰̺̠͌͊͋ͅa̬͕͈̲ͨͦͣ̌͗̎ͅb̻̜͎̖̳̯̦̋̂́̐̈́eͪ̆̋̋͊҉̠̘̠̞͉̳̯ṯ̸͇͓ͨ͗ͦ͛͂͑h̘̥̭͖̮ͮͧ͊.  
̰̖C͇̣̫̒͢ͅͅa̜͉͎̞͍ͪ͟ť̤̓͌͋ͩͬͭhͫͭ̏ͪ͗e̬̩ͯr͎͔͔̉̽̉̀ͧ͂̎ǐ̷͙ͯ̾͑ͫn̡͚͚̣͎̙͍͔ͣͪͭ̅̈́ͭė̦̲̙ͨͮ͡.̹͡  
̶͎̗̱̞͎ͫ͐͊̏A͌ͩͥͣ͛l͐́ͅi̞̦̺̖ͅͅc̈́̒ͪe̽͏̼͚̘̼͙̼̗.̤͙͉͌͂̾ͅ  
̺̐̅͋͑̚M̯̠̬͕͕̊á̮̐̍̌̄͜r̬͎̣̝̈̈̍͟i̵̜͇̜͖̎͐͒̈̀̐e̪̺̖͗̉͒ͧ ̵̝̥̳̫̂̃̌̇Ḳ̤̼͕̖̔̀̅̑͂ͭ̆̕ě̘̣̭̙͞lͭ͗l̼̰ȳ̈ͣ̾̐̒̇͜.͚̤͕̯̳̉ͬ͒̊̎̍͆  
̳͉̻͙F̭̘̗̃̐̄͋̊̔͋r͉̼̺̼̉͗̋ͪ̂͡ͅͅa̬̥̻̅̓ͤn̛̐ͩc̯̖̘͙̲͊ͯ̌̌̒̓i҉ś͚̗̱̳̺͉ͦ.̘̤̗ͦ̊ͯ  
͚̦̘̰̥͔̈́̈͝B͓̈ͮ͂ͥͥě̜̂̃͊͆ͩ̿n̹̳͛͊̈́̿̾j͍̱͚ͣͧ́̑am̹̱͙̦̩͎͛͋͞ͅĭ̞̼̖̱ͮͣ̄͛̃̽n͎̪̪̮̝͔̠͗.͔̣̜̘̀͋ͮ͛̎͡ͅ  
̧̭͇̻̻̝͈̃̆̈́

 

S̠͔͙̭̫͆̿ͥ̐͐ͫ̔̒̊ͭ̾ͨ̐̾̈́̽̀ͯ͜͡͝͞o̩̳̜͖͍̼̜͆͊ͧ̽̆̋ͦ̃̋ͪ̽͘ ̥̘͎̬̘͚͇̲̹͍̜ͭ̎̃̓͛̄̀̕͞m̘͎̪͇̥̙͇̖̯̹͖͓̟̟̲̭͔ͮ̅̏̉̿̓ͧ͒͜͢ͅa̶ͨͩ̾̂̏ͤ̽̇̍͝͏̺̞̮̘͎̗̠͖ñ̴̷̸̯̫̖̟͉̰̼̼̒̌̔̌̈̏̅̍̌̈̍ͨ̋̓͐ͫ̅ͪ͠y̵̧̻̲͓͚̤͖̤̜̭̪͖̩̟̯͉̦̹̼̝̅ͯ͐̆̿ͧ̌̊͒.̋̒͐ͮ̈̾̐͐͋ͫͨͯ̈́̂̑͆ͯ̆̚҉̨̯͎͉͕̺̗̼̗͎͢͡͝

* * *

 

Laughter.  
Joy.  
A newfound happiness.

Froud wrote on his parchment pieces every day. So much to write about. So much to think about. It was amazing. Who knew one could live so much by taking one life?

…The feeling- good _god_ the feeling of breaking that repetition… it bordered on orgasmic. Break this newfound pattern- create a new one. Do it again.

  


_Do it._

 

 

D̿̀̓ͪ̑ͫ͛͋̀̓҉̧̳̞̜͖͚͎̥̦̱̦̬̖̠̞́͘ o̵̢ͣ̆ͬ̈́͋́ͩ̔҉̰̫̻͙̦̥̩̜͇͔̭̞̜̕ ̶̢͍̖̱̩̩̪ͪͧ͛̈́̾̀ͬ͜͜ḭ̵̵̛̜̣̟̺͕̼̻̳͉͓̟͉͓̘̤͗̓͂͆̀̐͊ͧͩ͒ͨͥ̿͗̍ͦͨͬ t̷͍̭̖͙͇̳̺͓͇̤͇ͩ̓ͮ̈̃̊̓ͥ̊͛͌̍ͦ̇̆͒͡͞.̔ͦ͂̏͐̾͑̾̉̚̚҉̴̮̠̗̱̳̯̜͇̭͈̝̦̞̫͠ͅ

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack the Ripper victim names. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	9. Unravelling

How does one describe a smell like this? Something so putrid. So… organic. An ongoing, stiff coldness, yet an inexplicable warmth wrapped it’s knobby, gnarled fingertips around Froud like a snake. A beautiful, shimmering, leaf-green serpent with golden eyes and a belly like cool silk. This feeling. It was a good feeling.

 

The b̴͔̯̦loated remains of a paternal figure lay there, a fresher, more pristine and feminine figure here. Hands clasped together, tacky and rich with red, the once panicked, chaotic laughter had ceased, it’s owner’s body now trembling softly, quietly in the ill-lit, suffocating room. A repetition worth repeating.

_Who was this, again?_

Glancing toward the first ones’ face, it looked somewhat familiar, as if he’d known it his whole life. ...Ah. He had. But ah, this…? Who was this, then…? 

_Why, Elizabeth, you dunce. You forget things so easily, my goodness._

 

Another. Who was this? Froud wasn’t even sure who this one was. Elizabeth had yet to gather quite the potent scent that Erwin did, but… then again, Erwin had been there the longest. He wasn’t sure how they’d gotten in or where they’d come from, but flies had gathered, and… beetles. Small things, the beetles plentiful and black, the flies- they… they were strangely p͏̠̮̞͈̮̜̥́r͖͉̖̩̦̱ȩ҉͕̺t͕̝̭̬̲t҉̖̻̱̱̭̙̭ỳ̨̭ to Froud. Metallic green with black bellies and fiery eyes.

They’d not been there the other day. When had they come in? Sometimes he’d sit and watch them eat. Eat and eat, until they moved slow and walked awkwardly. It was oddly comforting. These lives- all of these lives, otherwise insignificant and treated poorly by those who deemed themselves higher- were benefiting from his actions. They were being nourished, they were finding partners, socializing. They were just like him.

Outcasts. D͠҉̡͈̯̟͚̺̰͖i̡͚̲̠͎ś̕҉͖̟͈g̘͍̗̥̭ụ̴̬͚̬ṣ̴͕̲̗̼̥̝̰t̸̨͕̩͈͈͓̞i͕͇̪̜̘̫͍͙̭n̦g̜̜̝͖̯ outcasts.

 

Five. The ś̥̳̟͕̕m̺̼͖̣͖̖̭͝e̳̰̞̘͜͠l̠͍̰͚̱͕͉̻̀l̛̮͈̻͍̥… Froud had forgotten it. The insects helped. He’d caught rats, and once or twice mice, though rare and far between. Erwin had disappeared- or at least, anything recognizable of him. Elizabeth had a writhing, undulating mass of blowfly larvae residing within, poking out of tattered nostril, spilling out of eye sockets, causing cheeks to twitch and lips to tremble much like they would if alive.

That face, though. None of them had that face anymore… that… joyful, m̶̀o̧r҉̵͠t̡̕͝i̷͜͢f́͟i̷ed̸ expression frozen onto their featuresonc͠è ҉th҉ey’͟d͜ died.҉ Aft̡er̷ a wh̸ile, no matter the stiffness, the insects would destroy it. He harbored no ill will toward them- they just did what they had to to survive. Just as he did. That’s just how it was. The circle of life.

 

R̡̨̳͔̟̤̦̖͠é̡̨͓̪p̮̠͇͟͠e̶̡͍͉̦̼̰͞t͜͏͈̭̟̫̟̺̙̝͕͜i̝̱t̞̠͙͚͙̭̗͡i̛͈͙͓̰̭̟͚̼͞o̢͖̯̠̼̺̱ņ̮̘̖̪͟.̨҉̶̝̱̹

 

Froud had begun a collection of paper clippings. Initially he’d cut them out and tack them somewhere. The more he collected, the less room he had, until eventually, he simply began putting them on the floor and͡ ͟c̶úri̵n̡g ̶th҉e͞m ͢so th̶at͠ ͏théy ̸w͝e҉re͏ ̨l͘e͟ss̨ likely to get damaged. The insects showed no interest in the cured paper, only the fresh paper and corpses that littered the floor. Skeletons, some, faceless, fleshless beasts others. Some g̬̺͔̰͈̥͟a̱̗͕p̡͓̹̼̫̳̳̹̀i̳̗̠̗̦̩̫̯͖͞n͈̺̰͈̱ͅg҉͕͚̤̟̯̞͖ ̡͍̮̀w̸͈̱͍̳͟ǫ̝̹̣͢u̮̹͎̯̻̻̣͢n̷̞̘̯̝̮͈̜̩d̯̞͈̜͇͇̤̪͘s̮͖̻͕͜ in their bellies, some hundreds of bruised, red and puffy slits where a knife had been shoved in and pulled out repeatedly.

None of their faces mattered anymore. Not their identities, anyways. It was their eyes. That look he craved. That joyful look. The look of… what _was_ this a look of?

 

He’d lost track. Writing down what he could still, he dedicated time to social affairs, recording his thoughts and thinking. T̨͖̟͇͍̰̕͞h͎̲͇̻͎̠͢i͏̪̬̻̹̤̕ͅn̴̡̫͇͔͜k̵̛͙į͈̟̞͝ng with his friends. How many friends lived with him now, in this very room? His nose was numb to the scent now, even with it’s potency. He’͢d́ r͠e̴ce͜iv͟ed̴ a t͏el̢eg҉r̸am re͡cently concerning the odor, asking if perhaps something had gotten t̷̷̰͚r͓̩̭̖͉̹̤͟͠a̴͚̹̝̘͉͓p̰̣̜̰̠̠ͅped in one of the unused rooms. The house was large, and upkeep was only done on the used rooms. Many were let to settle in the dust and gloom.

How many maids, now? With his friends. They must’ve been serving his guests, in their own way. The beetles certainly seemed̛ ̨plea͞se̸d ̢w͞it͞h́ t̀hè maids̛’̀ ser͢v̡ice.̛ Ţhe flies as well… even the rats and mice. Moths seemed to like their clothing, too. It all worked out. A little network was building- F̴̀͘r̀҉҉o̷u͡d͘͜ ̷b̶e҉͜i͠n̷g̵ ͜t͜h͘e̢̕ ̶̧ho͟s̨͝p̛͞i͡table host. H҉̡͉͈̳̦͖̰̱o͏̶̼̜w̢̞͓͇̺͔ ̮̹͖̩̙͜k͏͕͚͙͍̪̻͝i͏̜͖̟̦̠̻̲n̲͎̯͙̟̦͕̭͘d̟̪̫̫̜̬͚̗ ̨̨̱̘͍͢o҉͉̪̠̟̣͠f̴̸͔͙̜ ̢͍͕̝̮́h̴͏̻̖̳͕͚̠i̞̣̪͕͎͙m͏̨͉.͕̟̬̮͙͜

 

How much time had passed? How many had it been now?

 

 

H̛͡ ̴̕͜ow̵ m̡̊̍̊̿̅̾̂̍͆̽̚͘͏̶áͮ̅̓̀͞a̴̾͆̉͆ͯ̆ͣ̔͂̚̕͞n̨͌ͧ͆̑ͧ͊́҉̶ y̸̠̗̬͊ͫͫ͋͑̅̅̕͟ ͭ͐҉̻̜̹̺̞̻͟w̢͇̓ͬ͌ͥa͋͋ͨ̿ͫ́҉̧̖i̸͙̲̘͊̓̓̿t͖͙̹̺͆̾̌̋ͯ̾͞n̨̩̭̠̼̖̭̞͚͍̰̘̣̹̱̝͗̂ͦ̿͂̌ͪ̂͐̽̀o̡̬̩̩̤̒̾ͭ̓ͩ̑̀̓͊́̔̕͢ ͕͉̬̙͈̼̯̬̙͍̘ͪͪ̐̊͑ͯ̐ͣ̈́ͦͧ͋͐͆̀̚͠ͅw̴̳̗̮̲̳͖͓̻̗̰̫̓̽̄̽ͪ͑̀͞ͅͅ?̢̛͙͙̲͍̯͇͕̤̹͆͊̽ͥ͌̈́͒̉͢͜ͅ ͔͇̘͇͖́ͨͪ͛͌ͩ̍̓̒̐̾̓͌ͨ̆̑̈̚͝͝?̵̷͎̞̲̪̰̙̱̙̣̼̟̹͓͚̯̖͇̐̀ͥͬͦͪͤ̀ͤ̃̆ͤ́̚̚ͅͅ

 

  



	10. In Which A Dog Fetches The Paper And Outside Parties Make Observations

It was a beautiful day, today. More beautiful than it had been in a long while, to say the least. The sun shone from above, the ever stubborn clouds finally willing to move aside to allow a finger of light to beam down and bathe everything with a weak yellow filter. The remnants of rain, evident in the chill of the damp air and the ever lingering dew that puddled and piled upon blade after blade of rich blue-green grass. A rare day, it seemed.

A few children played about outdoors in their rain gear, maids or mothers overseeing things to ensure they didn’t get too dirty. The occasional droplet of water would fall from tree limbs or garden archway, the odd bird or two bathing in the puddles accumulating along the gutter indent in the street. It was so serene. So quiet. The children were playing nicely, the birds were quiet, and the guardians chatted softly among themselves. It was nice.

It was quiet in there, too. That old manor. It often was, even before it’s owner had gone missing. All that remained was the owner’s son, a quiet, well behaved young man who seemed to tend to every bit of upkeep himself. He did the lawn, the repair, the tidying. It wasn’t exactly unheard of, but it wasn’t particularly common in this area of town. Most had servants or workers to do maintenance, yet here, this lone man did everything on his own.

Perhaps it was respect. His father had disappeared, after all, and who knows- he may be tight in money, or simply trying to save. Workers could be expensive, and given he was young and able-bodied, it wasn’t out of his ability to do chores. As peculiar as it was, and no matter who may ponder it, no one ever pried. No one ever wondered aloud, no one ever dare venture over to ask.

Because there was a stink in the air that deterred them.

It deterred the neighbors who once would visit once a blue moon to see how things were fairing. It deterred the milkman- he’d not been to that doorstep in months- maybe a year? Who knew. It deterred the mailmen and couriers enough to deposit the mail at the far end of the driveway area, rather than through the slot on the porch.

It even deterred the stray cats, which was strange, given at one point it seemed as if cats were dying to get inside.

Things certainly do change.

 

* * *

  


Froud made the weekly trek down the driveway and onto the street corner. He was well kept, though a little ruffled here or there and seeming a bit dark beneath the eyes. His clothing was clean, ironed, proper. He didn’t seem nearly as concerned about appearance as he may once have been- perhaps it had something to do with the absence of his father. After all, he no longer had a voice to dictate what he did or didn’t wear, what he did or didn’t do.

A few bills, tax notification, an invitation to an event he had no interest in attending to, and a letter from Ethel and Frieda. He didn’t get mail very often- the mail for his father had stopped coming a while ago, what he got was ‘general mail’ and personal mail, now. He preferred that- it was tiresome trying to figure out what to do with mail he had no use of, no right to.

With a sickly creak the mailbox was shut and he’d lean down slightly, removing the paper from the container beneath. Tucking it under his arm, he’d turn and return up the driveway, through the little white gate guarding the yard, across that and up and onto the porch deck.

Deciding the air may be good for him, he took a seat on the little bench nearby the window planter and rested one leg atop the other. Sorting through the mail, he’d read what needed reading, though left the small black envelope sealed in wax quite alone, as if it’d be wrong to open it now. Going through the paper and picking out his favorite bites, he’d discard the rest in a bin he’d begun to keep on the porch and head inside with his findings.

* * *

  


* * *

Sitting upon a rather dusty, mildew-ridden chair, Froud read this letter once, twice, thrice- he’d lost count of just how many times he’d reread it. How many times he’d tried to decode it. Something, something. It’s there. It’s known. He’s known. Is he still safe? Is he still quiet? Surely- they knew him. He knew them-- sort of. Did he truly know them? He often felt, despite them not knowing the little details, that they knew him better than he knew himself. He felt he knew them as well as the next, though held a certain attachment to them that was difficult to put into words.

‘Alas, we know that it is not a thing of our concern.’

‘As do you.’

Those lines sat in Froud’s gut like a lukewarm stone. A slimy thing, coated in algae, something you wouldn’t want to touch lest you wish your hands to become filthy.

‘As do you.’

The stench of rotting fruit and rancid meat that permeated throughout the manor suddenly became present- something Froud had forgotten and grown numb to long ago. Letting out a weak sigh, he’d rub at his temple and make his way upstairs to his quarters. He’d most likely be visiting with those two, soon. He had to mentally prepare for normal human interaction.


	11. The Aerial Ascent of a Lekking Glasswing

Pain and pleasure love to mingle on a fine and narrow line, like a performer balancing on a tightrope. Often, some cannot immediately differentiate the two, or the two have become so very blended together that either or are fine in substituting the other. Sadly, many of the people who end up like this experienced some sort of trauma in their life to influence that sort of association and behavior.

Froud was among those people. He’d developed an unhealthy habit of encouraging and enabling others to bully him during moments of intimacy. Hair tugging, skin scratching, throat squeezing. Gripping hard enough to bruise, biting hard enough to mark- exerting more physical force than necessary, simply for the sensation. Cause and effect, cause and effect. Repetition.

Froud often felt strangely numb to touch. Once upon a time, touch was overstimulating, overwhelming- he hated being touched in any way, be it a simple brush of hands or a nudge of shoulders. Even a simple handshake felt horrible. Now, he rarely felt anything. He felt everything in the literal sense, but he held a gaping and empty pit in his chest that never seemed to heal. It never filled in, it never scabbed over, scarred. It hung open, wide and vacant, devoid of _something_ , though he wasn’t sure what.

Warmth, perhaps. He rarely felt warmth in the way he craved it. Warm by a fire, warm in a bed, warm in the arms of another. These were things easily obtained- literal forms of the word. What about spiritual warmth? A genuine closeness to others? Friends, family, acquaintances even- That feeling of love, of connection. What of that form of warmth?

Froud lacked it. That black, poisonous and ever bubbling pit in his gut- that is where warmth should have been but wasn’t. Had it been there to begin with, or from the start had he simply lacked it, cursed not to feel? Did he truly want to feel it?

There was a strange and irresistible warmth to holding the life of another in one’s hands. To control it- to steer the situation- complete and utter control. That was satisfying. That was warm. it was most likely the closest Froud would get to such a thing. Not everyone, after all, was born blessed with such a thing. Froud certainly didn’t seem to have been.

* * *

“Froud, is it alright if I come by your place later today?”

“Hey there! How have you been?”

“We should stop by this shop again one of these days! It’s boring when you’re not around.”

* * *

Staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, Froud let out a slow breath of air. Tracing the decorative patterns of floral sprays and curvature, the young man lost himself to the beauty of distraction. A dull and distant chill grazed at his bare frame, and soon, he began to lull, lids falling over pensive and lax eyes. A short lived thing, for soon the bed creaked at the far opposite side and a person was sliding out, excusing themselves.

Sighing silently his lids would raise once more, head slowly rolling to the side to glance at the woman beside him. In a moment time she too had rolled her head, though following said gesture she re-positioned herself to face him. Froud offered no verbal response, nor any words, brows simply raising in an unconscious reaction to making such blatant eye contact.

Something strange in the eyes.

They say the eyes are the window to the soul. Froud failed to see a soul beyond these eyes that gazed back. He failed to see souls beyond any of the eyes he looked into. Was everyone soulless? He had a feeling this was the case. He felt so very alienated from the rest of society- perhaps that was it. No one had souls.

But _he_ did.

“...You know, Froud...” a soft, wispy voice piped up after a long time of silence. “You’re quite wonderful.”

“No I’m not.” It was an automatic response. Flat- soft spoken and lacking emotion entirely.

A small and gentle laugh was given in turn, followed by a little smile. “You needn’t be modest, Froud. You’re gentlemanly and kind… everyone’s got their eyes on you.”

Eyes.

Froud slowly looked up toward the ceiling, suddenly feeling tired looking into the eyes of another living creature’s. It felt strange.

“Hey, come closer. I love--”

A white hand had snaked it’s way to Froud’s chest, and soon a head was laid there. Listening to his heartbeat, the young woman sighed softly. His heartbeat was even. Even with having been engaged in something strenuous and active only moments prior, his pulse was level and steady.

“This sound… Ah…” Melting against his chest as if it were the most soothing place in the entire world to be at, a faint smile graced her lips.

“You know, Donovan’s got a rather strong heartbeat. When it’s slow, it still holds that strength… when it’s fast, it’s like a beating drum.”

Froud’s arm had been loosely draped across his chest. Lyla, the woman in question, gently took his hand, using her own smaller and dainty fingers to part his and compare size. Looking up as if intrigued, she’d chuckle.

“Yours… there’s something to it that’s different… It’s small… soft… like it’s sleeping. A fragile thing, it…” she drew his hand near, glancing over his palm, then the back of his hand, lightly touching each fingernail. His hands were well groomed, nails and all. She was admiring them.

“It never changes, either… Like an infinite calm… an unstirring lake, where nothing may disturb it’s waters… the faintest of ripples may come, but no foot may sink past it’s surface to upset it…”

“You’re very mysterious, Froud… I don’t entirely understand you… I don’t think I want to, either… there’s something appealing to the intrigue in which you carry…” One of Lyla’s arms gently curled about Froud’s trunk, offering a soft embrace.

“Don’t ever change… The world changes so much every day, it’s frightening and hard to keep up with…”

Froud’s lips twitched.

“I don’t plan to.”

_Repetition._


	12. Stoneheart and Badger

Sunset. A rich, vibrant, red sunset. Despite the slightest of chills in the air, things were finally warming up. It was tolerable to go outside without extra layers, people were more willing to walk from property to property. Not everyone owned horses, after all, or even the incredibly rare automobile.

Despite the warmth and summery-fingertips that clawed at the edge of late spring, there was a gentle, almost ominous gloom high above. Along the horizon, all was clear, but the further up one looked and there was muddy, brownish gray clouds, scattered oddly here and there. Froud was most likely to visit Ethel and Frieda tomorrow. He simply prayed the weather would stay relatively nice- the wet and chill still got to him more than the average man his age. He was just... a little fragile like that.

A tender breeze caressed a pale cheek, feeling strangely welcome despite the cold. What was it, he thought about wind again? He had foolish thoughts of it far too complex for a child his age at the time. Preoccupied, the young man couldn't help but smirk at the thought. How did it go? 'It was beautiful, but it was cold. It made grass billow and cooled you down, but toppled fences and trees if strong enough.'

'A powerful and fearless creature. A truly admirable thing.'

Ah, but Froud was not powerful, fearless or admirable. He recalled feeling this, and to a certain degree, he still did. Even if the chains of suffocating paternal wrath no longer gripped him, something inside did, though he hadn't the slightest clue as to what that was. He often found himself feeling that way about most things. He didn't understand himself, or others. He felt petty and stupid for not being able to grasp such seemingly simple concepts. Other people seemed to have such little difficulty.

Once he'd made his way out of his own neighborhood and out into the ever familiar countryside in which he regularly trekked as a child, he'd let out a slow and tense breath, letting the wind carry all that toxicity and darkness away with it. He felt new, just in that moment, and wished to embrace it, even if it were childish and improper of a young man of his status.

Determining that no one was around to see, Froud first kneeled down and unlaced his shoes, removing them. Tying them together, he'd unclip and unroll his socks, stuffing them inside. Barefoot, he felt the cool, lush grass beneath spread toes, soaking up the sensation. It felt... nearly crisp, yet soft all the same. Like a cold drink that lacked any bite. Pleasant and refreshing, yet not overly pungent.

Following his shoes and socks were his trousers, which he ungracefully rolled up to above the knee. The cool air with just the slightest hint of warmth felt good on his bare skin. Every little pinprick of chill that tickled the hairs on his legs, that tingled against him. It was a warm feeling. A simple feeling. One that was not easily found. One he craved, desperately so, often and yet rarely truly felt.

It was an alive feeling.

* * *

Taking off into a run, Froud darted. He cared not what may lie hidden in the grass, be it the prick of a bramble thorn or the slip of something dead and rotting. He did not care. He was running, and he was living. He was feeling it. Every little thing- the wind, whistling in his ears as he went his fastest- the sting of the tall blades of grass as he passed through, the cold his ears and forehead rarely felt, for the wind tousled his fringe back and laid them bare... He felt all of it, and he adored it.

It all stopped with a sharp and sudden halt along the uneven and rocky shore of a small body of water. It looked larger than last he remembered. Had it always been that large? It looked more like a small lake than a pond. The pond he'd swam in before, time and time again. The tree was off and in the distance, tall enough to see but not close enough to reach without quite a walk. Seeing it brought a strange sense of calm to Froud's being.

Catching his breath, he eventually began to laugh. Laughter turned into tears, and he'd toss his shoes aside and fall back onto the grass, wallowing in it like a dog in skunk. This feeling, was it ecstasy? He felt free. For once, free of responsibility, free of burden, of blood on his hands.

A low hum- no a buzz, travelled distantly to the left, drawing nearer. Despite it's closeness it remained soft. Passing above Froud a great beast passed overhead, landing on the face of a nearby tree. Glossy, black and six-legged it rotated it's body to face down the trunk. It then began to groom itself.

Slowly pushing himself up onto his elbows, Froud, now feeling strangely weak from his burst of excitement righted his body and rose to a stand, slowly making his way over to the tree. Slowly, gently, he'd press one slender and stark white hand to it's bark, his head tilting slowly and far to the side, doing his best to see in the dim light of dusk.

This creature's natural response to any large thing approaching is to hold perfectly still. Staying true to it's nature, it lost all sign of movement and settled. Patiently, Froud waited, standing in silence as he gazed almost affectionately at the thing before him. A shy thing, surely, even for a large and impressive male. Almost three inches long and wearing a suit of metallic oil and spikes.

The stag slowly perked, continued grooming, then waddled proudly about on the tree's surface, eventually crawling onto Froud's hand and, now curious of the new texture, along his arm, taking gentle, painless tastes of his skin all along the way. Once on his shoulder he'd slowly lower his arm, simply turning to look at the water. The light above reflected darkly on it's surface. It was beautiful.

The stag had eventually climbed over his breast, to his opposite shoulder, and onto his face. pausing a moment at his cheek, almost as if to stare into the eyes of it's gentle giant acquaintance. It then proceeded to move up, exploring the tousled, sandy hair on his head, before deciding this was indeed not a tree and not a female. It then took flight, returning to the bark it had settled on just moments before.

Smiling, Froud admired a short while longer, then began to speak. "...Your litter will be great. You don't even know it, either... One hundred- what a great number... nothing to you, of course... numbers mean nothing..." sighing, he'd tilt his head. "Little things, they'll be, feasting on the rotten, woody flesh of fallen trees... ugly things, fat, writhing worms, blind and deaf... but then,"

Froud wrapped his arms around himself. "Then, they'll grow... they'll grow large, and fat- even larger than you, and then harden and encase themselves... you don't remember, but you did it once before..." he'd chuckle. "They'll eventually break free and move on to make more of themselves... beautiful, metallic beasts... on murky translucent wings, veined and crude... oh, how people dislike you, but I do... I like you..."

"You're alike, you and I... the likelihood of us never having children is high, for something greater may capture us, kill us, feed on our essence and suck us dry. Our spirit, though, shall not break. No matter how small we may feel, or how unaware we may be, we will carry on in other ways. Dust on the wind, but something, all the same..."

As if on cue, the trees would shiver in the breeze, the gentle rustling of their leaves letting off a noise that caused Froud to tremble. Slowly backing away, he'd make his way over to his shoes, shrugging off his vest, uncuffing his sleeves and unbuttoning his shirt. Halfway, he'd untuck his cravat and begin to loosen it. Unravelling it so that it draped over either side of his neck, he'd pause.

A pale hand would raise to gently touch at his own throat, eyelids falling. No matter how long the time passed. No matter how safe he was, quiet he was. It felt strange, laying it bare. Only consensual blemishes dare mar his flesh now, otherwise always clear and perfectly white, and yet... twenty years, he his his neck from the world. Hid the rainbow that coated it, the prints that bruised it. No more, and yet, the habit did not die.

Slowly he'd remove the cravat and shirt, breathing slowly from his nose. Focused, though on nothing, he proceeded to undress down to his bare flesh and nothing more. Gingerly, like a cat on a hot, tin roof, he'd tiptoe along the course and rocky bank, hands out to either side of his body for balance as he dodged the sharp stones and pasty mud.

One foot. Then the other. The water was warm on it's surface but cold beneath. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't intolerable. Stepping out further still, until it was just below his knees, he'd stand, simply feeling the

Purple lythrum speckled a small plot of land that bled into the water off the opposing shore, looking indigo and scarlet in the dull light of the sinking sun. Further into the water, little speckled clusters of white and yellow buttercups could be seen, some bowing beneath the surface at the weight of the fruiting nutlet clusters they beared.

Further in still were things like clusters of stonewort and small plumes of pond scum, though the area Froud had chosen was completely devoid of most obviously green and unpleasant things. Slowly sinking down into a seated position in the shallow water, the compact stone and soil beneath his bare bottom bothered him none. It was a bit dark for swimming at the moment, but soaking in the water for nostalgia's sake was surely harmless.

 

* * *

"This isn't the usual spot." a soft male voice sounded from behind. Froud's flesh jumped unpleasantly as if shocked, though he settled without turning to see who it was. Reclining further, Froud exhaled slowly. Silence, followed by footsteps and the shuffling of clothing sounded, and then the soft, damp padding of bare feet on stone and mud.

"Since we were... children, I've seen you come to his drink. I've seen you undress and wade into it like you were taking to your natural habitat." the voice grew closer. "...With those... two. The Blake girls." The distance seemed about five or so feet away and behind, slightly to the side. "You'd all swim here, hanging your garments and combinations high so as not to dirty or wet them. You took such care, you three, to not enrage your parents."

The feet stopped. No longer behind, they were now to the left of Froud, though he remained still, staring further across the body of water. Now, the gentle rippling and disruption of water could be felt, and the bare body of another young man slid in, the heels of his palms balancing against a nearby boulder as he lowered himself into the water.

He sat a respectful distance to the side, perhaps four or five feet, maybe less. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he'd peer at Froud, honey colored eyes soaking up the scarlet surrounding them, making them glow an almost fiery orange. Froud had yet to respond or even acknowledge the other's presence. Either he was purposely ignoring him, or he simply had nothing to say.

"...Froud. I've... wanted to ask, for a very, very long time..."

Froud's eyes shut once more, swallowing. He did not like where this was going. He knew who this man was, by his voice alone, and his hesitant and awkward movement. He'd known him since childhood, even laid with him once or twice. Had he followed Froud here? Why? Old questions similar to the ones he had before his father's death began to arise. What about Froud was so special? Special enough to magnetize some people.

"...Was your father hurting you, Froud...?"

Froud's chest heaved slightly. He couldn't stop it from happening, and he'd immediately turn his head away. No response, even still. Buttoned tightly, no words spilled, Erwin's name shall not be dirtied now, not ever. Only Froud's if any name. Only his and his alone, for he'd done far worse than any wealthy business man with an only son that looked exactly like his mother.

"...You've always covered your neck... since we were small... you always were so pale, and weak... sickly, even... you were frail, like the slightest thing might fell you... you'd never remove your scarf, or cravat, or tie.... you'd disappear for days, stuck at home, ill with something harsh on your voice like a cold..."

Stop.

"You never spoke of your father... or your mother... I..." the man fidgeted. "Once, I spoke to him. Your da... he said your mother passed away during childbirth. I never knew... he never remarried, either..."

Froud had no attachment to his mother. He would have liked one. He really would have, but he didn't have one, never had a replacement or a maternal figure like a grandparent or family friend. He had maids, and he had Erwin. That was it.

"He said that as much as he missed her, you were a reminder of her, though... that you were a precious piece of that broken puzzle... that, even if broken, as long as there were some pieces, it'd be fine if one were missing."

"Klaus." Froud's voice was small. Strained.

"He was very strict with you... he seemed to really love you, but... there was something else, wasn't there...? Why you had to always be home at the exact same time... every single day..."

"Klaus."

"...Froud, he was hurting you, and you never told anyone... and... the moment he disappeared, you began to change... you began to speak, to socialize... to open up-"

"Klaus, stop." Froud still hadn't looked up, but there was a gentle waver to his tone, as if he were holding back emotion. "Please."

"...Sorry."

Finally eye contact was made. Honey eyes met sand colored ones and they'd simply stare. No emotion in Froud' eyes. On his face. He lacked any sign of feeling or thought- he seemed almost mechanical. Like a machine that could not feel. Could not love. It disturbed Klaus- had he always been that way?

"...Just... if... you ever want to talk... or need to get things off your chest, I will listen... you've always listened to me, even when it didn't seem like you were... and you've always been there, even at times when I wasn't. I just... I want to return the favor, somehow, Froud. I worry about you." A silence. "We all do."

"Don't."

 

Tomorrow is a new day.


	13. The Unrest of the Doves

Another unfamiliar ceiling.

Staring upward, Froud's eyes would slowly close, a small sigh causing his chest to heave just slightly.

Warm bodies.

They were warm, were they not? They certainly seemed it, in the literal sense. All signs of life- the gentle breathing, the soft and cool breath against his lower abdomen, the slender hand resting at his inner thigh. This was a living, breathing thing. One with thought, emotion.

Bare flesh.

Another one- warm, too, stretched along his upper body, the heat of bare breasts pressed to his ribs, a slim shoulder tucked beneath his own, rosy cheek and plush lipped face nestled against his collarbone.

"Froud."

Had it always seemed so distant? Even physical warmth? Wasn't that the point of all this? To feel _something_? The world was so cold. Even on the hottest of days, the driest of days, every thing felt cold and damp. Trapped. Like a little worm, nestled beneath a cold and rotting leaf on the forest floor. May the water pool around it, drown it, even if the world dries long before it does.

Froud certainly, at times, felt like that soggy little worm. He couldn't help it. He couldn't help a lot of things- the decay of his home, the decay of his social life, the decay of his own mental ableness. He was losing time. Losing focus, losing track of everything.

He'd found what he thought was freedom, but all it did was cement him further into the soil. Trapped. Once again, the cruel mistress that is repetition. Why she taunts him so he hadn't the slightest, but he grew tired of it. He wanted change. True change.

"Froud."

Two voices, near identical, one coming from beside and one from below, echoed distantly. Slowly, Froud would blink, an eyelid delaying just slightly behind the other. Slowly glancing down, then to the side, he was met with four pale and frigid eyes. Beautiful things. Like ice.

Both of the eyes' owners seemed different. It wasn't a refreshing different. It was a tiresome different. One that, though not exactly alike, was similar a difference to Klaus's. Was it concern, they called it? Is that what human emotion it was? Froud was beginning to lose track of what was what. What meant what.

"...Froud, you're known." the hand at his thigh slid to his knee, though rose up to gently caress his outer thigh. "The sand runs thin, Froud. Any day now."

"Any day now." The other voice would echo, both seeming on the verge of sadness. "This cannot go on forever, Froud... it will consume you... it already has... it's beyond help but it cannot go unnoticed..."

"We see you, Froud."  
"Ah."

And what was this supposed to mean? 'We see you.' Of course they see him. They've got eyes, haven't they? And he's right there. They're touching him, feeling him, speaking to him. Foolish.

"...Be quiet, Froud..."  
"...Be safe..."  
"Time is short, Froud... and unforgiving."

"Stay silent. Stay sharp."


	14. Deus ex Machina

It wasn't enough. It was never enough. The longer without, the more he yearned, the more he ached. Without it he felt incomplete, unsatisfied. He craved it, like an addict craves cocaine or opium- without it he could feel a decline in his mind, a decline in his body and soul. It felt... wrong.

No matter how many times he saw that fleeting moment as the light left a person's eyes, how many...? How many times, now...? Seven... seventy... ah... yes, seventy six... no, seventy seven... was it seventy seven...? He couldn't recall anymore.

The stench is what reminded him of his crimes. The rancid stink of decay, of bloat, mixed with something strangely sugared- a misplaced sweetness in a sea thick with noxious fumes that violated the senses. Gnarled, man- no, was it woman? He no longer could tell, no longer could see... was it even a person, now?

Lying dead. Was a human still a human, even after it ceased to breathe, ceased to speak, walk, live? All it looked like to him was a hollow and vile husk- like the molted skin of a cockroach, the ghastly remnants of what once was. Disgusting. They were all disgusting. They didn't matter.

What were their names again...? He couldn't recall. Vague, fleeting images came and went once in awhile- ones of tea, of dancing, of conversation, of sex. They differed, face between sunken face, while at the same time they looked so very similar in this pathetic state. A splash of spoilt blood here, a gash or two there. What happened to them?

"..." A soft sound, like gentle wheezing escaped chapped lips.

Cool, ecru colored eyes focused yet not, deathly pale flesh stark against such dark surroundings. Lips gently formed into a small and strangely serene smile, hands together. Seated haphazardly on the floor amongst many a littered corpse, the man let the cold yet suffocating air in the room fill his lungs, seep into his being and take him.

Until the door burst open.

Froud's form, feeling already very small, seemed even smaller among the splay of bodies surrounding him. The intruder in question... a policeman. Small. So small. He could easily shrink away and disappear- cease to exist. Perhaps that'd be for the best. Was he needed? Was he wanted? Perhaps, at one point, he was.

"We've found you!" The man broke the silence, keeping a safe distance from Froud. He seemed disgusted. Afraid, slightly, though more disturbed and angry than the previously mentioned. "Hiding in a place like this..." he paused, suppressing the urge to gag at the stagnant odor of death. He'd raise an arm, awkwardly placing it over his mouth. A moment was taken to gather himself, and he'd bristle- much like a hedgehog.

"...These are... all of them... all of the people reported and found missing... you jerk!"

The smile on Froud's face worsened. It bordered on downright awful. A shaky, weak chuckle escaped thin and pale lips. The policeman stepped forward one, two steps, brows knitting. 

"With charges of assault, kidnapping, corpse abandonment and murder, you're under arrest!"

"Hehehe..."

"What's so funny?"

"It won't do. It won't do, I'm telling you." Shaking that delicate, lovely head of his, Froud would speak. "Won't do, won't do. It won't do at all."

"Huh...?"

"Such a small feeling... it won't suffice in the least. I won't feel satisfied, I won't feel accomplished..."

A visible chill ran down the policeman's spine, temples already beginning to sweat. Something... was wrong. Wrong beyond the varying levels of decay on the copious amount of corpses scattered about. There was something happening beneath that misleadingly flawless hide that clung to the creature before him.

"What are you saying?"

The smile on Froud's lips spread thinly, only growing in size. "My father was really quite awesome. He was seriously trying to kill me. He was seriously feeling joy while doing it." he'd slowly look up, wide, lightless eyes locked on the policeman. "He had fun. More than anything else in the world, he loved bringing me to the edge between life and death."

"That's why it's a pity. Really, don't you think so too?" Froud slowly rose to a stand, hands limp at his sides. They were coated in the rancid, blackened blood of his victims, scattered about him like cockroaches on their backs. "Even after doing all of this, I was unable to make my wish come true. But, even if that's why I couldn't make it come true, I don't have any intention of spoiling things by drawing the curtains."

Very little of what Froud was saying made sense to the policeman. It felt, to a degree, as if Froud was talking to himself, to an invisible force, and not to anyone present in the room. Still, that in itself was enough to unnerve the policeman.

"...Just a little bit more..." Froud's eyes had closed, though opened, this time calm. Too calm. Resigned, even. "...No. I'm fairly reluctant... but it's all I can do right now. I'm concluding this story with a different approach."

As Froud spoke, he'd made his way over to something. He could barely see beyond his own wavering vision. Something, something. Something something.

Ah, there it was. Nudging into it gently with his hip, a sharp feeling like a corner, he'd idly raise his hand, pawing at the counter until his hand met with a block. Fingers slithered over it, the pads of each tip feeling for one, one, the one.

There it was. With a sickly, metallic drag and a clink, a knife was removed from the block. The moment it was produced, the policeman was jumping forward, a hand held out. "You won't- Ohi! Stop!"

Raising the knife closer to look over it, a look of absolute calm spread over Froud's features. Taking a deep breath, he'd glance at the policeman. 

"Goodbye. This is a curtain call."

 

It had happened too fast. The stretch from the doorway to Froud and all the corpses that stood as obstacles in between- there wasn't even a chance given to stop what had happened. Even if one jumped over the bodies and ran quickly, very few would have made it in time.

Froud had done it without hesitation. Without a blink. He was gone. He'd learned, after so many gone before him, how to do it quickly. How to do it slowly, how to do it every way he could possibly dream of. This was no different. It was his final kill. His most satisfying kill.

In a vibrant spray of crimson, the wall, counter and cupboard behind him had been doused. As his body fell, so did the knife, and soon after, from the impact of the fall, so did a glass. Shattering , the undersides magnified the blood and grime beneath each shard, though soon too was painted over on top as the blood from Froud's throat continued to rush out. 

Eyes opened, but not focused, no longer looking, no longer seeing. Lips parted ever so slightly- his skin- had it always been that pale? That dirty vest and shirt, newly painted, newly washed with the rawest, purest forms of dye. From his mouth gushed forth a stream, and soon enough the entire back of Froud's body was soaked in the pooling blood around him.

Long before reinforcements came, before investigators came, before cleaners came, Froud's head became tacky and cemented to the floorboards with his own sanguine mess. Just like the others. Just another body. No different. The same.

Exactly the same.

_Repetition._


	15. A Well Deserved Rest

Froud's death was a surprise to many. He had seemed... alright, for the most part. Perhaps they just hadn't been paying close attention. The news was not broken immediately, either, so many of those who would care felt a bit cheated upon finding out belatedly. While many families of the deceased in which Froud's hand had felled felt it inappropriate to have a proper funeral, an influence beyond that of the average worker and taxpayer said otherwise.

The funeral was very small. One could say private, as very few attended and even fewer had actually been invited. Against the wishes of those 'hosting' ( if you could call it that ), a few individuals had brought others with them. All in all, bringing these people together only made the get-together that much more bitter-feeling, as many of the people who one would assume should be attending were already buried or having funeral arrangements themselves.

For many, the shock of knowing Froud had indeed been the 'vicious pervert of a killer' everyone had been fussing about for so long had several unsure of how to feel. Conflicting thoughts of anger, grief, disbelief. Naturally the death of a friend was a hard blow, but finding out your friend, or your friend's brother, or the cousin of a friend's friend had died at the hands of someone they'd considered themselves to be close to- it was despicable and confusing.

Despite Victoria's laws, very few felt it at all appropriate to mourn for Froud for the full deep and/or half mourning periods. What he'd done was unforgivable. Right? No one should be honored after having done such godawful things. Especially one who seemed so sound of mind. Calm, calculated. A true predator, for they were much more dangerous than any deranged and sudden-striking criminals.

The estate in which Froud and his Father had lived had all clocks stopped, all curtains drawn. All mirrors covered in drapes and on the door, visible to all who passed or ventured near, a wreath of yew to signal that death had come to it's inhabitants. Already the slightest bit eerie, it now all held a foreboding 'haunted house' feeling that nobody much cared for, therefore the property was entirely avoided by everyone.

A proper funeral was still held. Reluctantly. Everyone attended, dressed in their tidy garb of cashmere trousers or crepe gown dyed only the inkiest, darkest of blacks. Nothing new, for that was bad luck. Everything went about as typically as a standard funeral would, everyone being granted the opportunity to view the deceased. Single-file, from foot to head, along the aisle and down the next.

It was typical for men to be buried 'dressed as they would be in their daily life'. Therefor, Froud had been dressed in comfortable-looking trousers and shirt, a vest over it, all muted and neutral colors. Peeking just barely from over the edge of his scarf was the grayed, precise stitching of a jagged knife-wound over his throat. His face had been gently powdered, dusted in an artificial rosy hue to replicate liveliness. He looked... peaceful.

Far more peaceful than Klaus had ever seen him before. Reflecting on everything, from the day the news had been broken to the very moment in which the funeral took place, Klaus had began to realise things. Piecing things together, making sense of questions he had. It was disturbing. Froud never seemed... at ease, while he'd been alive. Even has a small child, the vague memories of a blank-faced, distant boy came to mind. A child who was so distant and so blank-faced at times that he got into trouble without even realizing it.

Even as a teenager, Froud had seemed distant from his peers. He barely spent time with anyone during holidays or days off, and when he did, it was only for very brief amounts of time. He'd often disappear, too, from time to time, all throughout his entire time in school. Ill, he'd claim to be. Everyone assumed Froud to simply have a fragile immune system. This, though...

One thing that had been quite disturbing about it all was Froud's writings. He'd done quite a bit of writing, all of which could be read from start to finish in a few hours. It's beginnings were dated about two years ago, which was roughly around the time when Froud's behavior had progressively gotten more and more concerning. It was also around the time when his behavior had completely turned around and become the opposite of concerning. Normal. Social. Present. Oddly so.

Froud had had beautiful handwriting. That was one thing for certain. His penmanship was absolutely gorgeous- something he most likely had inherited from his mother, as Erwin's was tidy but about average for a man of his social class. Froud's was... crisp, flowery. One could say feminine, but not at all in a bad way.

It was sad, how, over a year and a half's time, it had gone from that to something almost utterly unintelligible. His 'V's and 'U's looked nearly identical, is 'E's sometimes were missing the final branch at the bottom and blended in with the 'F's. His calligraphy and cursive had failed miserably by the end- it was often difficult to make out simple, short words with how poor his handwriting had gotten. The final 'entry' had to be the least legible.

One would think he'd developed a disease of some kind- of the memory, of the nerves- something. Something to cause his mind and hand to not work together the way they should. Betraying one another. It broke Klaus' heart, really. All of this. He'd loved Froud, even before he realized just what kind of love it was. Familial love, friendly love, intimate love. 

The writing had been discovered and presented to him by the Blake twins. They seemed to have come into possession of a great many objects having belonged to the late Froud. Whether he'd consented to this or not hardly concerned Klaus. It may have before he'd found out all he did, but not now.

Klaus did not harbor any kind of anger toward Froud, or disgust. He felt, if anything, incredibly saddened that Froud had been having so many problems for so long and hadn't told a soul. It seems only a very small number of people had suspected abuse between Froud and his father, and he'd never brought it up or even confirmed any prying questions. He had been utterly secretive about it. Whether he was preserving his father's good name or not was beyond Klaus, but that didn't matter anymore.

When Klaus walked down the aisle and saw Froud for the first time in what had probably been nearly a month- he wept. A quiet, composed weeping, but weeping all the same. He couldn't help it. His... friend? Were they friends? Was there- right there, cold, stiff. No breath of life or warmth of blood. Vacant of all signs of true living. A corpse. The shell his soul had shed. Just like a molting insect, it had dropped it's final skin and had gone on ahead without it's peers.

Ethel and Frieda seemed completely unaffected by the death of their friend, which sat with Klaus oddly as he seemed closer to them than even himself. They did not smile, nor did they weep. Completely blank and unemotional. What were they thinking? How did they feel about this? They always had been strange- even after their father had passed away they seemed hardly affected at all. If anything, they seemed to become more productive and independent. Froud... had done something like that. But it had backfired. With these two it had been different.

At one point, one of the other guests had stopped in front of the coffin which in itself was incredibly improper. Following this, they began to show confusion and mild disgust, pointing into the coffin. Questions, questions. Ones no one answered, no one acknowledged. The guest had been removed from the building without so much as a peep out of the others.

"Why are there dead beetles all over?"  
"Who put all of these dead insects in here?"  
"How crude!"

Klaus didn't question it. He did know one thing about Froud, and, knowing this, he felt that this is what Froud would have liked. Would have wanted.

Intricately, delicately. Positioned on his vest, in his hair, nestled against his shoulders and neck, above his head- beetles. Different kinds of beetles- small, large. Horned, black, glossy, rainbow. Those of native species and of imported- the kind seen on brooches or mounted behind glass in displays meant to be hung on the wall. A Handsome yet lifeless menagerie, right there, inside of the casket.

Being the last in line, Ethel and Frieda stepped before Froud's corpse, turning in succession. One leaned forward, gently placing something inside, then both bowed their heads. Stepping away, Klaus caught a glimpse of what they'd done. It all seemed like a strange piece of art, not a dead man waiting to be buried.

Over his lips a small and plain butterfly had been placed.


	16. The Lamb

Black. Endless black. No floor, no walls, no ceiling. Empty black.  
Suffocating darkness, no mass surrounding, nothing to grasp, nothing to cling to. Floating, yet not. Still. Everything had come to a halt.

Yet...  


_Why am I aware of my surroundings?_  


Why can no scent be smelt, why can no sight be seen, but the awareness of such senses being deprived are there and tingling at the back of a restless yet tired mind. Why?  


A hand would attempt to move... then a foot. The sensation of such movement could be felt, though it could not be seen. Ah... eyes... those would have to be opened, too...  


Eyelids peeled apart painfully like insect wings on flypaper.  


_Blind. I'm blind. I've got to be blind-_  


A stark white hand came into view. Familiar, yet foreign it responded to signals sent to it, fingers twitching, visible tendons in wrist flexing as phalanges tried themselves.  


As tender eyes adjusted to the black the slightest hints of movement were detected. Something like sluggish, rising smoke, the sound of something echoing and distant, like the sounds one would hear if contained inside something vast and hollow with little or no exits too far to get to by foot.  


_But who am I?_  


The next question came slowly in a muddied, struggling mind. What am I? Where am I? What's happening? First a handful, then a dozen, soon to be followed by a hundred more questions aggressively began to bombard a confused and once empty head.  


Like a newborn baby, the soul in question found itself rising to it's feet. Whether it were by it's own doing or a will all it's own was beyond their comprehension. Head continued to race with complex feelings, all ones that changed to something sickeningly excitable only mere seconds after being felt.  


Hands rose slowly to clutch the head, perhaps to claw at the flesh, to tear it open, pry the skull open, feel inside. Release the flies that swarmed without, unrelenting, unending. Make it stop, make it stop-  


Something like the high pitched scream of a kettle or train sounded so loud it was deafening and the black all too quickly turned to white.  


_Blind. I'm surely blind now._  


A wind kicked up madly, a suffocating mixture of smoke, chill and force that propelled the soul through what felt like time and space itself. Lost. Lost. Dying? Certainly, it must be dying. It must be going now. Was this purgatory?

"Open your eyes."

A voice unlike he'd ever heard rang out overhead. It penetrated his very being and left him feeling shaken. Monotone, empty. Dead. He didn't want to open his eyes, not to a voice like that. Was this a nightmare? Some disgustingly real-feeling dream? He couldn't move his arms anymore, he couldn't pinch himself.  


"..."  


The voice's owner let out an exhale slight of sound, the soft rustle of fabrics and perhaps leather following. Why wasn't he dead yet? Why hadn't the voice killed him? Why, despite everything, did he hold a conscious? Memories were few, far and inbetween yet he remembered the rich, raw aroma of scarlet and pungent odor of decay. The taste of both, the sight-  


"I will not hurt you."  


Eyes reluctant in response slowly peeled apart. ...Where was this, now...? In the center of a forest...? The night sky, a rich and inky black was painted in intricate constellations and peppered in clusters of gorgeous, snow-white stars. The leaves, the grass beneath him- it shivered and swayed gently in a cool breeze that passed by, feeling almost akin to a satin shawl being draped over his clothless form.  


The figure that stood before him a good eight feet away was tall and toned, tanned flesh and cool, emotionless blue eyes focused in on him like a hawk on it's prey. Striking, wild red hair fell down in long, wiry waves that trailed down to his mid-back and framed a stern, blank face.  


The most notable feature, however, was not the skin, the eyes, hair or even the strange clothing the man wore, but a pair of sleek, curved black horns that projected from atop his proud head. The way the hair grew around them, fell and curled about them, they weren't decoration, they truly were growing from the man's skull.  


Hardly able-minded enough to process the strangeness of all this, the soul shakily let go of his head. Sharp stinging from his scalp let him know he'd dug his nails in. Pushing himself up felt like torture on strained muscles that screamed in protest. It felt like a chore.  


Glancing at hands palms up, only then did he notice at the tips of pale, knobby fingers were claws that bordered on the territory of talons. Similar to that as a pup or kitten, they were soft and lightly colored. Newly developed. Deathly sharp.  


And tinted in red. Most likely from digging them into his scalp. It... may take adjusting, these. But why did he have them to begin with? They were strange. He'd never had them before, never needed them. His toes were clawed now as well, and-  


"...What... am I..." Was the first thing to come out of his mouth, though even speaking strained his throat, made his mouth dry. Tiring. Everything was exhausting. Every movement, thought, feel. He wondered if this is what newborn babies felt like.  


"There are many names for what you are. What you've become." the man slowly stepped forward, though the soul no longer felt afraid of him. "You remember little, yet what you do is so extreme it burns behind shut eyelids just to think about it. Your last memory, do you have it?"  


It took thinking. A pause. He wasn't sure- did he have this last memory? He thought he did... but it seemed far away. He recalled the smell of rot, of iron, he remembered lying so joyfully, a look of ecstasy- pure, raw, mortified ecstasy as the life left the eyes of the man who looked back-  


"...I... ended my own life."  


"Ah..."  


The man looked away, eyes scanning the surroundings. The soul couldn't help but follow. Four stones, facing inward. One covered in intricate markings, three blank. "Two more shall join us. When, I cannot say. For now, you must find yourself. Determine what you govern, and rule it."  


What? What does that mean? Govern? Rule? What?  


"...What is your name?"  


What... was his name...? He certainly had one... it seemed distant... the closer it felt to being grasped, the more intense his emotions felt. Something overwhelming, overflowing. Something bitter. Something giddy, laughable. Pitiful.  


Joyful.  


  


"...My name... is Froud."


	17. Chapter 17

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	18. The Path to Enlightenment

Getting used to a new body can take time. It can be terrifying, too. Much like a child entering puberty, a girl may feel terrified upon discovering blood spotting her underthings, or a boy awaking only to find he'd had a wet dream. It's embarrassing, confusing. They wish to hide it from the world, conceal themselves, and keep as below the radar as humanly possible.

That's how it was for Froud.

Froud had taken a rest, after all. He hadn't intended on getting up so soon, either. He'd been hoping it would have lasted a bit longer, but a rude awakening had roused him from something pleasant right back into the thick of things. It wasn't at all what he'd expected. What he'd wanted.

People could be so... greedy.

Razel had hinted at that much. With a proud and indifferent head, he was hardly a help and the two rarely saw one another. They seldom heard the whispering of the other's thoughts, they rarely even were in the same plane. They felt each other, though. They always felt each other.

Froud was not used to understanding words he'd never known to exist before. He could hear them, coming out of a man's mouth in their raw, mortal form, but his brain did not hear them that way, only his ears. His brain saw elaborate colors and pictures- the definition of each word in a common tongue all would understand.  
  


Froud had seen few with dark skin in his days in the land of the living. He had seen slaves, once or twice, but none of his colleagues had owned slaves and his own bloodline had never particularly approved the idea of owning another human being.  
  


He'd read of aboriginal men in texts for school. Peoples in grass and mud, painted to blend into the environment. Stealthy and masters of the earth, savages settled long before those who were pale fleshed. It was all glorified in textbooks to seem far worse than it truly was.  
  


Froud encountered some of these 'aboriginal men' in this form. They were no different than what he had been. Simply different in practice. That was not savage, that was simply... who they were. Their clothing, their diets, their skin- it was different. Not savage, not worth any less or more than the pale fleshed, decadent-living.  
  


Razel never spoke of his origins. Froud gathered he, like himself, had his inner demons better left undisturbed. Alas, creatures such as they can only have so many inner demons, being what they were. What Froud had become.  


Froud knew not of the complexity of Devils. He had known of demons, and of a Devil, Satan himself, Lucifer the fallen. He did not know that Devils could exist beyond that. He did not know they could be killed, or their origins, or how they came to be.  
  


It was a knowledge he'd never thought of, never cared to think of, and yet knew now, the longer he was what he was. Feared, loathed, yet by some revered and adored. Froud did not wish to be revered or adored. He did not deserve it, and so he approached the masses much like Razel would, with an air of indifference.

How many times had Froud met a man who'd just killed his family, begging to make a deal to keep him safe from harm? How many times had Froud encountered a woman wishing revenge upon her cheating spouse? How many people would Froud meet, wishing for power for something beyond their control, willing to sacrifice a piece of themselves to obtain it?  
Disgusting.

...and yet, that's how it was. He could eat, drink, sleep. He could do many things he could like before, yet he didn't need any of it. He needed the raw essence of living things- souls. Even so much as a fragment was a vital requirement of his. If a man or woman offered it so willingly in exchange for something petty, who was he to decline? His primary instinct now was to survive. To last, to defend himself.  
Despite not truly feeling that way in his heart.  
  


He hadn't killed himself, after all, with the intent of coming back in the form of something long-lived and powerful. He hadn't dreamt of it. He had killed himself to escape, to rest. But he didn't deserve a rest. That would be luxury for a beast such as he, and he deserved no such thing.  
  


Froud supposed this was his punishment for his sins. For taking the lives of so many. The time he finally wanted his own life to end, he was denied, forced to live eternally in a constant state of... Joy.  
  


That's another thing Froud had learned. Joy ruled him, and he ruled it. He felt little else. He found himself giddy at the worst of things, writhing in his gut the need to laugh at his own discomfort, to laugh at the famine the world suffered from, to laugh at every bit of misfortune. Be it to himself, to human, to animal, to Earth.  
  
It was all so pathetic and hilarious to him.  
  


Froud did not know what Razel ruled over. He was... enigmatic. He never smiled, never angered, never fretted. He carried himself with a neutral sort of confidence. He was not proud of himself, yet he did not pity himself, either. He just was.

  


Froud lost track of time. It didn't matter, anyways. Not anymore, at least. He was to give to the people and be given to in return, no matter how unfair it may have been. A soul for wealth, a soul for revenge. Matter did it not. So long as it was consented to. As long as it was honest.  
  


He could evade questions asked of him. He could manipulate minds, but he could not lie. But... who needs to lie, when one can simply withhold information all together? If he were to be stuck as... this, he may as well find ways to entertain himself.  
  
  
Anything was better than repetition.


	19. Chapter 19

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	20. Dear Klaus




	21. Season of the Cat

The demise of man came and went over a span of many, many years. Froud’s observant eyes, ever watchful,witnessed the death of the last human being, and the birth of the first Ribika. In his time as a devil another had joined his kind, and so there were three. Rarely did they interact, rarely did they speak. They needn’t, as by Nature’s strange law, they were connected by soul-- or what little soul they had remaining. The elder flame, the middle child, and the young pariah. Fire, Wind and Electricity. Wrath, Joy and Pleasure. 

The Ribika were very similar to humans. They walked on two feet, had hands they could grip with. They slept, ate, drank, bred much like humans did, with only minor differences in behavior. The peculiar thing that set them apart from humans was their obvious feline characteristics, both physically and behaviorally. Each Ribika’s temples were absent of the naked, shell-shaped ears of man, yet atop their head were velvety, pricked ears varying in shape, from pointed like a housecat’s to rounded like a tiger’s.

Each Ribika’s backside was blessed with a long and expressive tail, varying in fur length, texture and color. Like the cats of Man, Ribika’s fur patterns varied greatly from cat to cat. Ribika had the need to groom like cats did, yet lacked the full-body fur, and so would settle on skin. Their tongues were rough, their teeth pointed, and the ‘smaller’ type cats had slitted pupils. From their fingertips were retractable claws, as strange a sight it was to see.

The sun had died, at one point in time, yet remaining were two moons. Both illuminated light from an unknown source, one stronger than the other. They were dubbed the Day and Night moons. Over the years Froud had observed mankind, and in doing so had observed the many doomsday and apocalyptic theories fabricated by paranoid and overly imaginative humans. He never imagined all would end and result in this. By no means was he disappointed- he’d grown numb to such an emotion. No, it was… exciting.

That’s all anything was. Exciting. A clan of Ribika that worshipped his kind? Exciting. The total destruction of a village due to a natural disaster? Wonderful. Being summoned and made deals with by some, and being lured and hunted by others? Delightful. Over the years Froud had forgotten what anger was, what grief was. He lived his unlife barely able to contain his joy and pleasure- he trembled-- nay, vibrated with ecstatic glee, his sensitive breathing suffered from all the laughter and his body ached from the restlessness that accompanied his infinite giddiness.

And yet, he felt empty. Terribly empty. Every time he should have felt something else- frustration, regret, fear… it all was but fleeting, quickly replaced by sickly sweet rushes of Joy that bubbled like poison in his veins and flooded his lungs. This only frustrated him further, which in turn was dragged through the mud and drowned out by Joy. He did not govern Joy. It governed him. It was inescapable. All wishes of release, of an actual end, it just couldn’t be. No matter how much he wanted to die, wanted to try to take his life a second time, it simply could not be.

For he was simple. Like animals, they lived almost entirely relying on their most basic of instincts. To survive. His mind, his soul- it screamed to be killed yet his instincts would smother and overpower these feelings easily. It was pathetic. A roundabout of failures, a dog after a tail that would always remain just out of reach. Repetition, repetition, repetition.

What respect the youngest of the Three had for Froud came and went quickly. Very early on it was determined that Froud was beyond balmy. He knew not of Froud’s origin, his reason of being. He only knew that Froud was a lost cause, and had been long before his own change. In fact, he likely thought Froud had been a lost cause long before his human death.

Decades became centuries, and Froud, already on the edge from the very beginning, jumped, and jumped again, and again and again into the ever swirling, ever boiling pool that was his own madness. Razel remained indifferent as ever. Verg, less so.

It wasn’t until well into the development and establishment of the Ribika did a change in Froud occur. A change that did not go unnoticed by his fellow devils, for as lively and as Joyful as he was, since the very beginning he had been the most dead. What fragment left of his soul that made him him, it was shrivelled. Charred. Black. He had the least amount of soul remnant-- if one could be soulless, he came close.

A change occurred that caused the stoic Razel to pause. A change that sent an electrical jolt down the uncaring Verg’s spine. A flame had been sparked in Froud-- a need. A want. A cause. Life.

Yet it seemed to come and go. A thread remained, burning softly, yet it’s intensity never did seem to match it’s initial one. The three did not spend much time together, but had familiarized over the years, and even encountered one another in person when they were called upon all at once. Their awareness of Froud’s change only grew with each meeting. It was an ominous thing. One not even the mouthy Verg commented upon.

Two years later, the birth of The Fourth came, and so the Unlucky Four had finally united. Each standing stone in the field of their reawakening donned their unique sigil. Together they made up the rawest and most intense of emotion- Wrath, Joy, Pleasure and Grief. The youngest of the four detested Verg for reasons Razel and Froud were unaware of. They only knew one thing: That Kaltz, the newborn devil, had been a Ribika. A break in the repetition.

Of the four, Kaltz and Froud were the odd ones out. Both partook in their duties, as they ought to, as they were driven to as devils, yet they oft neglected them as well, their presences in strange places they ought not to be. Razel being the eldest, he was the most ritualistic of the four. He never wandered, never defied his own wants or needs and never smothered his nature. He was that unending calm before the storm, though the storm never truly seemed to come.

Verg was similar. Despite being the second youngest, he seemed to typically enjoy his ‘work’, if it could be called that. Perhaps it fed into his narcissism just enough that he viewed it as worthwhile. He could pretend he wasn’t appreciative of it, but the truth of the matter was it stroked his enormous ego. Having people who respected, feared and loved him in such a way… it pleased him greatly.

Froud was not like this. When he was not being riotous and was actually behaving well, he carried out his duties, though seemingly reluctantly. One could say he did the bare minimum of what his nature would permit, the rest of his time being spent in one of two places, one in an inhabited region of Sisa, the newly named landmass of the earth that the Ribika inhabited. The other was quite the opposite.

Ribika rarely tread on these grounds, and wild animals, no matter how tempting, never ventured into the green. It was a lush little corner, claimed and reclaimed again over many a year, now swallowed up by the earth once more, heavily wooded and sheltered from the outside world. A quiet place, a safe place. Light poured down from a dense canopy above in splinters, illuminating the ever still surface of a pond at the center of it all.

The pond’s water was so clear and so pure that one could see their reflection vividly in its surface while still being able to see down and to the very bottom of it. No signs of life were ever seen within, no fish, snails or insects resided. It’s as if the pond itself had been frozen, for nothing moved beneath it’s surface. The most remarkable of all, it could be walked on and cause nary but wet footsteps on an otherwise solid feeling surface. That is how it earned it’s name-- Mirror Lake.

It had earned such a name from the Ribika, anyways. Froud did not have a name for it. He knew there wasn’t one-- only that it had been special to him for some reason, though he could not recall why. He could vividly recall the abuse he endured as a child, and the moments leading to his death, but the things between and even the things beyond often muddied together into an unintelligible mess of grays in the back of his memory.

One thing was certain, however. 

It was quiet.  
It was safe.

**Author's Note:**

> Naturally some events are not original works of mine. However, a majority of it is my original ideas. Froud is very unpopular and unexplored as a character, and I thought it'd be neat to explore him by making up a story for him.


End file.
